Yew and Holly
by Ansketil and Lilacs
Summary: Harry brings his lover back to Britain to spend Christmas at the Weasleys. But things never go to plan when your name is Harry Potter – or your lover is Lord Voldemort. Takes place five years after the events of 'In Somno Veritas.' LV/HP.
1. Threshold

**Title: **_Yew and Holly_

**Disclaimer: **We do not own Harry Potter, nor are we making any money by doing this.

**Authors:** ladyoflilacs and What-Ansketil-Did-Next

**Summary:** Harry brings his lover back to Britain to spend Christmas at the Weasleys. But things never go to plan when your name is Harry Potter – or your lover is Lord Voldemort. Takes place five years after the events of '_In Somno Veritas.' _LV/HP.

**Warnings: **Angst, graphic violence, and scenes of a sexual nature.

**Authors****' ****Notes: **Yes, we promised we'd write something for Christmas and here it is. We have most of it written already, so updates should be regular throughout December. We'd like to stress that this isn't a full, novel-length sequel to '_In Somno Veritas_' and - though it's set in the same universe - you don't need to have read our other story to enjoy _'__Yew and Holly__'__._

* * *

**1. Threshold**

_**threshold **__**- **__**noun**_

_**1. **__a strip of wood or stone forming the bottom of a doorway and crossed in entering a house or room_

_[in singular] a point of entry or beginning_

_**2.**__ the magnitude or intensity that must be exceeded for a certain reaction, phenomenon, result, or condition to occur or be manifested_

_[as modifier] a threshold level_

* * *

Shadows spilt across the room, slithering against the weak fingers of light that reached through the half-closed blinds. Crimson eyes blinked in slow self-regard, tilting toward their livid, curious reflection. Lord Voldemort sat in a pool of dark silk, spidery fingers stroking the glass. He toyed with the idea of illusionary charms, but his pride protested against any such measures, as he tapped a nail idly against the mirror. He had no desire to offer false comfort to anyone, let alone _them_.

Gaunt. Hairless. Pale. Inhuman. _Perfect_ - according to Harry. His flat nostrils flared and he stood in a rustling hiss of fabric, restless with anticipation, gathering a cloak about himself. Thick with felt, heating charms, and sable lining, its black swathe enveloped him in warmth. The deep hood was left about his narrow shoulders. Voldemort sighed, gave the great snake who lay sleeping at his feet a final caress, and pulled on the pair of soft leather gloves he'd acquired in Peru, crafted especially to fit his thin, long hands. He had hoped never to return to England in December. The chill made him want to curl up by the fire with his Horcruxes and never emerge until spring. Or, better yet, remove them all to the antipodes and avoid winter altogether. The years had only worsened his reptilian intolerance of cold weather.

Harry, however, had other ideas. And – for reasons which Voldemort did not like to think of – he was obliged to indulge him.

London. He had never cared for it and now he was here once more, _in winter_, and under obligation to suffer a great many fools. A chime sounded. Foul language stuck in his throat and he hissed; Voldemort was unwilling to sully his mouth with obscenities as he glided toward the source of the sound. He was a lord and he would remain dignified. For the sake of his dear one, he could afford to be gracious even to a Mudblood and a blood traitor. He shuddered to imagine the get of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley – straightened to his full height – and opened the door with a disconsolate flick of his wrist, squinting in the brightness of the rare December sun.

* * *

It felt like no time at all since Harry had last walked down a snowy street with his two closest friends, and yet somehow, in the blink of an eye, they had grown up without him. Ron was - impossibly - taller and lankier. The spots on his face he had so agonized over as a teenager had vanished, and he now moved with an easy, loping grace he had never quite been able to master at the age of sixteen. And Hermione had grown into a beautiful, self-possessed young woman. They both smiled more easily, and they seemed to carry themselves with less weight. A world without Lord Voldemort, without darkness or fear - they had been living in it for years now, and they had blossomed.

Harry wondered what they saw, looking at him. What had his years with Voldemort done to his face, his mannerisms? How much could they see?

"Fred and George have been having great fun with him," Ron was saying as they walked. "Last time they came round for a visit, Tonks said his eyebrows were green and bushy for the next three weeks! He refused to turn them back."

"Yes, well, it's all good fun until he can't figure out how to get back to normal," said Hermione, but her mouth was twitching with a smile.

"Aw, c'mon, Hermione! Tonks can do it, too! And Lupin thinks it's a riot!"

They caught a bus near the cafe where they'd spent the better part of the morning. Hermione paid the driver with Muggle money, and Ron was utterly fascinated by the middle-aged woman sitting in front of them who was jabbering away on a mobile phone. Hermione spent most of the ride prying Harry with questions about all the places he'd travelled since he'd been away.

"You're incredibly lucky, you know," she told him breathlessly. "To see so much of the world and its magic, and with someone who knows so much about it!"

Ron tore his attention away from the mobile to give Hermione a sour look. "Yeah, except that it's _You-Know-Who.__"_

They got off the bus on a residential street on the outskirts of town. The tall city buildings had given way to flats and small houses. It was a quiet neighbourhood, with friendly people who mostly kept to themselves. Harry liked it very much.

"You're sure it's all right to simply… pop in on him like this?" Hermione asked. Though they were clearly trying to hide it from him, both his friends looked distinctly more and more uncomfortable the nearer they drew to their destination.

"It's hardly popping in when he knows that you're coming," said Harry, smiling. "And if he can't handle the two of you on your own, I'm not sure how we can expect him to spend Christmas at the Burrow."

Ron had gone rather pale. "And how will we know if he can't - er - handle us?"

_He__'__ll let you know_, Harry thought dryly. "Relax, Ron. It'll be fine."

They turned down an icy path lined with bushes heavy with snow, leading to a small, unassuming house. Powerful magic rippled over them as they crossed through the wards keeping it hidden from their Muggle neighbours. Out of habit, Harry almost walked straight through the front door - but he caught himself with his hand on the knob. It would be good to at least give him a bit of warning.

The bell sounded faintly from inside. Then the door clicked and swung open into thick darkness.


	2. Tea with Lord Voldemort

**2. Tea with Lord Voldemort**

It took Harry's eyes a few moments to adjust before he could finally make out his lover, standing just on the edge of the shadows. With his braced shoulders and straight spine, Tom looked more like he was marching into battle than inviting guests into his home.

For a moment, Harry forgot all about his friends. The past day and night had been the longest Harry had ever been away from his lover. He could do little but stare, grinning stupidly.

Then he realised that Ron and Hermione were still standing on the doorstep, staring as well. Harry turned quickly back to them. "Er – come on inside! It's much warmer in here, isn't it? Tom, you… remember Ron and Hermione…?"

"Of course," Voldemort murmured, his narrowed crimson gaze taking in Harry's friends, lingering a little longer on Hermione. Long, gloved hands motioned the three of them inside, ushering them into the sitting room. The temperature hit Harry in a swell of overpowering heat. A fire danced and crackled in the hearth - with the curtains drawn it was the only source of light (Voldemort forgetting other people couldn't see in the dark again) - and the upholstery was saturated in Tom's powerful warming charms. It was like walking into an oven. "Please," his lover said softly, "be seated."

"It's a very nice place you've got here," said Hermione with a high, false note in her voice, even though Harry knew she could hardly see anything but the fireplace. "How long have you been staying in London?"

"Only a few days now," said Harry, crossing the room so he could quietly adjust the blinds and make the place a little less intimidating. He was careful not to let in so much light as to hurt Tom's sensitive eyes. "We only left Brazil about a week ago –"

Ron gave a rather loud squeak. "Harry - it's... it's the -"

He realised too late that his fiddling at the window had illuminated the sleeping form of Nagini at the foot of the couch – where Ron had just been about to sit.

"She won't wake," Voldemort reassured him, lowering himself regally into an armchair, pulling off his gloves, and holding his hands close to the fire. "Nagini has eaten recently and she will rest for some time yet, I assure you. She detests this cold as much as I." Tom gave one of his soft, hissy sighs. "Might we not have come in summer, Harry?"

"I think we've quite made up for it, haven't we? You've turned the place into a hothouse since I've been away." Now that the room was a bit brighter, Harry tugged off his scarf and began working on his coat. He thought he might be starting to sweat.

"Forgive me," Voldemort's red gaze returned to Harry's friends. "I am sure you have no interest in the weather or our domestic arrangements. We do not have much to offer by way of refreshments, since dear Harry has been away and I eat very little. But there is tea and we still have most of the chilli cocoa blend Harry brought back from Salvador." Voldemort reclined as though the armchair was a throne, but Harry wasn't fooled by those intimidating blank eyes, still face, and coldly formal voice. He could feel the nerves, the_ irritation_ humming beneath Tom's mask of composure. He was as out of his depth as Ron and Hermione.

"We've just had some breakfast, but tea would be lovely," Hermione said, still with that thread of high, unnatural civility in her voice. Ron, who had gone bug-eyed at _dear Harry _and hadn't yet seemed to have recovered, said nothing. Harry noticed that both of them had seated themselves as far away from Tom and Nagini as possible.

"Right," said Harry, clapping his hands together, and fled into the kitchen.

What had he been expecting, anyway? That Ron and Hermione had simply forgotten about all the chaos Voldemort had caused in their lives? That Tom would actually _want _to have anything to do with his friends? Harry put the kettle on the stove and tried desperately to think of ways to cut through the awkwardness.

When he returned to the lounge, however, Voldemort and Hermione were already talking: "-read the article you sent Harry on the magic of House-Elves. I found it extremely informative. Certainly more work ought to be done on the powers of lesser species and, indeed, on wandless magic in general."

"I would hardly call them _lesser-_" Hermione replied hotly.

_"Hermione," _Ron hissed, tugging on the arm of her coat, not looking at Voldemort, "you can't talk to - to_ him_ about spew!"

Though Harry thought that Tom might benefit greatly from a lecture on social equality, he wasn't sure Tom's reaction to such a conversation would get everyone off on the right foot. "Hermione _loves_ researching magical creatures," he said, desperately trying to change the topic. "Voldemort loves researching things as well, don't you, Voldemort?"

Voldemort raised a hairless brow in Harry's direction and the slit-pupilled eyes blinked a few times. To Harry's considerable relief, Tom was starting to lose his imperious Dark Lord expression and beginning to loosen up. "Well, yes," he murmured, shooting Harry an odd look.

"And - and Ron! Ron might be an even more brilliant chess player than you! The two of you ought to, y'know - go at it sometime."

Ron's face seemed to lose several shades of colour at the idea of _going at _anythingwith Lord Voldemort. "He… plays chess?"

"Yes," Voldemort nodded. "I understand you and Harry played at great deal of chess at Hogwarts, though I must say I have not seen this reflected in his game. He usually ends up attempting to exploit our connection in order to read my thoughts."

"Hey! I do _not!" _

A shocked bubble of laughter escaped from Hermione. Ron, on the other hand, looked scandalized. "You - you can_ read his thoughts!_ Does that mean... you remember that one game you beat me, Harry? Was _he _just telling you what to do the whole time?"

"Of course not! I'm a perfectly good chess player on my own! And I've come very close to beating him myself without any of his help, I'll have you know!"

"Very true, my dear, you_ have _been improving," Voldemort smiled up at him thinly, and Harry's indignation faded for a moment. "Your game of late has been adequate rather than dismal."

He perched himself on the arm of Tom's chair, trying and failing to look angry. "I just know how sore you get when you've lost! Something else you and Ron have got in common."

"Oh?" Voldemort stroked a pale hand down his arm, "if I understand correctly, you have had little opportunity to observe either of us in the act of losing a game of chess."

"Well I'll certainly get to once Ron's had a shot at you," said Harry, grinning, and then, to his friend, "You'd better not let me down, mate."

Ron was gaping at them, his eyes flicking constantly back to where Voldemort was touching Harry's hand. "Er… well… I'll do my best…"

"Perhaps when myself and Ronald are better acquainted, Harry. I should hate to be an imposition." His fingers continued their gentle caress, sending warm tingles up Harry's spine. _You are trying too hard, dear. The poor boy can hardly breathe._

_I think he really likes you! _Harry thought back vehemently, even though, if his wide eyes and paling face were anything to go by, Ron did not seem to be too keen on the thought of getting better acquainted with Harry's lover. Harry was just about to open his mouth to insist the same when the kettle began to whistle from the kitchen.

"Ah!" Voldemort's mouth twitched as he gestured elegantly with his yew wand, which always seemed to just appear at will in those long, white fingers. A beautifully filigreed silver tea service spun delicately into existence on a side table, complete with cups, a jar of honey, milk, spoons, a pot of steaming tea, and a jug of Harry's favourite cocoa.

Hermione stared at the tea service, her brown eyes wide. "Did he - I mean - did _you,_" she looked at Voldemort with nervous curiosity, "just nonverbally combine a Summoning Charm, and _Argentamenti_, with improvised Transfiguration?"

"No," Tom smirked at her, "that would be far too complicated. I merely invented a spell which achieved a similar effect."

"And you invented it just now? To serve _tea?" _Hermione looked a little flushed. "That's _incredible! _I mean - of course I've _read _about spellcrafting, but it's an extremely complex process - just the matter of developing a wand movement that complements the appropriate incantation -"

"Show off," Harry muttered under his breath as he gave his friends their teacups the Muggle way - by hand.

Voldemort, predictably, ignored him. "After so many years, it is largely a matter of intuition." He shrugged, accepting the tea Harry offered, and pressed the thin silver cup appreciatively against his flat nostrils for a moment. They widened, quivering. "Mm…"

"So is this honestly what you do together then?" Ron blurted out suddenly. "Drink tea and argue about chess?"

Harry, who had been rather distracted by Voldemort's dilating nostrils, forced himself to look away before he started talking about all the other things they did together - none of which, Harry was sure, either of his friends would want to hear about. "Well, we argue about quite a lot of other things, too... but, er, yeah - I s'pose that's the gist of it."

"Your friend is a great comfort to me," Tom voice was silken. "I would go mad if he were not with me." He let out a high, awful titter. It was a bitter, mirthless thing and, under his skin, Harry felt a stirring of the murderous hysteria that always lurked beneath the surface of his lover's mind. It sounded like a cruel joke at his expense but Harry could sense the underlying fury, loneliness, and helplessness. He'd been away since yesterday morning and Tom had missed him. His lover did not do well alone.

"Sometimes I think_ I_ drive him mad more than anything else," Harry murmured, slipping an arm around Tom's shoulders. Magic curled and tingled at his touch - long, warm, psychic fingers reaching for the aching sliver of Voldemort's soul. He let Tom taste how miserable Harry had been without him last night, how little sleep he had gotten trying to fall asleep alone for the first time in years. _I missed you too._

Voldemort leaned into his touch with a sigh of pleasure. He smiled - a real smile - and the red eyes glittered."Do not be ridiculous, Harry." He breathed softly. "You are a treasure."

Harry was suddenly burning with the desire to kiss that thin mouth, but he caught himself at the last moment. That would almost certainly throw Ron over the edge. He took a long sip of the scalding cocoa instead, but it did nothing to dispel the ache in the front of his teeth.

How strange it was, to smother such natural impulses of affection. It hit him for the first time that he and Tom had never really interacted with other people as a couple before. How were couples supposed to act in front of other people, anyway?

As if in answer, Hermione reached over and took Ron's hand between them on the couch. "It's clear that you're very happy together," she said, and Harry could see, with warm delight fluttering in his stomach, that she really meant it.

"We are. He means - everything to me." His fingers squeezed Voldemort's shoulder.

* * *

_Did he truly? If he was everything to Harry, then why were they here? Did his Horcrux not understand the shame Voldemort endured in returning to Britain? _Harry had such a large heart and it fit a great many people, whereas Voldemort cared only for his Horcruxes. He could not help but be jealous of every scrap of affection the young wizard gave to anyone other than himself. The thought of celebrating Yule, let alone with a brood of Gryffindor blood traitors, gave him no pleasure.

The Dark Lord reached up and put his long, skeletal fingers over the hand on his shoulder in a wordless communication of need. Nothing was more important to him than Harry, for whom he had sacrificed everything. The strength of Harry's emotion, still so shockingly intense even after all this time, washed over him. Balm for the long, lonely hours when his thoughts had turned to pitch and he questioned his decision to forsake the legacy of Lord Voldemort. His hairless eyelids fluttered and he turned away from the Mudblood and Weasley, so that they might not see his scant lip tremble.

_Just a little longer, _Harry's voice murmured within him, buzzing with promise. Aloud, his Horcrux began speaking to his friends about the upcoming holiday, but Voldemort was hardly listening, too beguiled by that fierce alchemy of spirit which Harry always aroused within him. He looked across at the face of his Horcrux, talking happily with his friends. He was very much like James Potter on the night of his death, Voldemort reflected. A tall young man, broad-shouldered and lean - fit from Quidditch - and, as always, bravely thoughtless. There were differences, of course. Harry's skin had darkened in the southern sun and there was ever something wild and a little unkempt about him. He could never quite be bothered shaving properly, and Voldemort suspected he was trying to grow a beard and failing.

"And Hagrid said he'd be coming by as well," Granger was saying with great enthusiasm. "They're all really excited to see you, Harry." _That half-breed oaf, as well? Delightful. _

"I think it'll be great for everyone to see us together," Harry said cheerfully, but Voldemort could feel the anxiety thrumming in the warm, small fingers beneath his own.

"Harry," Voldemort interrupted carefully, his grip tightening on his young lover's hand.

"It _will _be," Harry went on firmly, some of his panic edging into his voice, "because they all care about me very much, and I know that everyone will be glad to see me so happy!"

"_Harry," _Voldemort tried again, attempting to bring some semblance of reality to his Horcrux's fantasies.

"_Tom," _Harry snapped, finally turning to him.

His lip curled at the continued use of his Muggle father's name, especially irritating in front of others. "You_ must_ consider the fact that, in all likelihood, none of what you plan will transpire as you intend. I may be amoral, but I am not insensible," or _stupid_, he held back from saying, "to the effect Lord Voldemort inspires. Are you truly so certain that their affection for you is greater than their hatred for me?"

"Harry's part of the family!" Weasley cut in fiercely, his ears bright red in the dim light. "There's nothing that will change that, even - even -"

"_Ron!"_ Granger hissed at the blood traitor, and then she turned back to his Horcrux. "Harry - listen to me - he's got a point. You've got to be realistic about this. When it comes down to it, there are certain - _things_, that have happened, that are… that are going to be difficult for people to simply -" her voice hitched, "_forget, _and it's - it's possible that everything might not go as smoothly as you're hoping for."

"Well, this is my life now," Harry said hotly, fingers flexing against the Dark Lord's shoulder. "_Voldemort _is my life, and I love him with everything I've got, and if anyone's got a problem with that, then they've got a problem with me!"

"I'm not saying anyone's got a _problem,_" Granger said patiently. Weasley snorted. "I just think it would be good for you to - to prepare yourself. Before you get let down."

"Precisely," Voldemort said quietly, "think on how long it took_ us_ to reach an equilibrium, my precious one. Much as I appreciate such a passionate declaration of faith, I am…" he searched for the right words, "I am simply… _ill-suited_ to such company."

Harry gave him a soft smile; his anger appeared to be dissipating. "Don't think you can get out of this now. Everything's going to be fine. Perhaps not right away," he added quickly when Granger opened her mouth again, "but - it will be. You think you're_ ill-suited _to a lot of things… but if we'd let all that get in the way before… well, we wouldn't even be here right now, would we?"

Voldemort gave a slightly theatrical sigh. "And here was I hoping that your friends would assist me in persuading you out of this ludicrous plan." Nagini was stirring. Voldemort called to her sleepy mind and, slowly, she drowsily ascended the armchair and curled onto his lap, heavy from feeding. He stroked her head idly, humming to her under his breath.

"I don't think we've ever had much luck with that," Weasley muttered.

"And you all should be happy for it," Harry replied, grinning smugly. He ran an affectionate hand across Nagini's scales, and Voldemort felt the shadow of the warm fingers ripple across his own body. "It turns out that I may actually know what I'm doing once in a while."

Voldemort laughed.

Harry looked genuinely offended. "What? I do!"

The Dark Lord patted his arm in a gesture of false reassurance. "You never plan, Harry, you merely force everyone else to improvise with you."

"I simply - give myself a little room for the unexpected," Harry said defensively, and at the incredulous looks on all their faces, he added, "All right... a lot of room... but you never know what's going to happen, do you? Plans aren't always such a great thing! When things don't go the way _you_ think they will, you're completely out of your element!"

"Harry," Granger burst out angrily, "we're talking about people's _feelings!"_

Harry withdrew instantly, looking injured. "I - er - but - he's... promised to be nice," he finished lamely. "Yeah, I get that it might be - difficult, at first, but he's such a large part of my life... it's only natural that I want to share it with my friends, isn't it?"

"Well of course _we _understand that," said Granger, "but that doesn't change the fact that he's Lord V-Voldemort and that he's killed a great deal of people! People that many of us cared very deeply about!"

"You think I don't know that?" Harry demanded, and Voldemort could feel the familiar argument raging in his Horcrux's thoughts. But when he spoke again, his voice was small with hurt. "Look, if you just came here to tell me that it's not going to work, I wish you'd just come out and say it."

Granger looked on the verge of tears. "That's not what we're saying at all, Harry, _please - _you just - you need to go into this with a bit of sensitivity! You're not the only person who's lost something, you know!"

There was a brief silence in which Harry stared fixedly down at his lap. Although his Horcrux's face was tight with anger, it was dejection and frustration which flooded across the link connecting their minds.

"Everyone is mostly just excited to see you again," said Weasley softly, when Harry didn't respond. "Mum hasn't shut up about it all week. It's been five years, mate."

Soft, reassuring, white fingers lifted Harry's chin. _It will not be easy, my treasure, but nothing truly rewarding ever is. _Aloud, he said "May I speak to Miss Granger in private?"

Weasley clutched tighter to the Mudblood's hand. "Anything you need to say to Hermione you can say to me, too!" he declared, though his voice cracked in the middle. _Gryffindors._

"Ron." Harry squeezed the Dark Lord's shoulder - _thank you_ - and stood up, taking the warmth of his body with him. "C'mon. I've got my own room upstairs. I'll show you the magic carpet we picked up in India."

"I'm not leaving her alone with him and that - that _snake!" _Weasley whispered, gesturing furiously at Nagini, still curled on Voldemort's lap.

"Thank you, Ron, but I can handle myself," Granger said quietly from the lounge.

Weasley looked back at her, aghast. "But… Hermione…"

"I'll be fine, Ron," she said firmly.

"C'mon," Harry said again, more gently this time. "We'll just be upstairs." Weasley gave the Dark Lord one last look of terrified suspicion, and then Harry ushered him up the staircase.


	3. Ron and Hermione

**3. Ron and Hermione**

"Miss Granger," Voldemort said softly when he was sure the two young men were out of earshot, "I am certain you appreciate the fact that I am incapable of remorse. Nevertheless, the things I did to your parents in my pursuit of Harry were undeserved. Certainly, they were Muggles, and I was in the habit of using such for my experiments. There have even been times when I was glad of my actions against this Muggle-born witch to whom my precious one is so attached but, as my jealousy faded, I came to realise that it was, in part, your letters, your _support_ which allowed him to remain with me. And so it dawned upon me that I was in the debt of this witch whose parents I had abused. Your strength of character is remarkable and quite uncommon..."

He could have said a great deal of falsities to please her vanity, but instead settled for what was almost the truth. He did, after all, read all of Harry's correspondence, just to be sure. And one or two… inappropriate letters had been known to go missing. But Voldemort was no longer a young man and he had too much pride to blandish the Mudblood overmuch.

The girl stared at him, clearly so flattered by Lord Voldemort's praises that she was unable to form words.

"...Then, of course, I read the essays and articles you send with your letters and some of them are quite good. They might even be brilliant one day if you manage to move beyond the limitations of book-learning. Even your misguided attempts at social justice evince far more ability than the majority of your peers. You are a strong and intelligent witch, Hermione Granger, and it would be disappointing were you not to use your gifts to impose your will on the world around you."

"I hardly think that enlightening others to the injustices committed _daily_ against our magical brethren has anything to do with _imposing_ _my will!"_ she said, all in one breath, colour rising in her cheeks. "And my father may have been a Muggle, but he was one of the strongest, most intelligent people that I've ever known, and I - I wouldn't be _half_ the witch I am if it weren't for -" She broke off and looked to the fire, breathing heavily. "But Harry's my friend. And it's clear that you make him - happy, and that's what's most important. Harry's happiness."

"Yes," Voldemort whispered, "that is why I agreed to return here with him even though I have great reservations as to the wisdom of such actions." He ignored her ridiculous exclamations and focused on what they could agree on. "His happiness is paramount in my considerations but I have no idea what to expect from the coming days and Harry's relentless optimism does nothing to allay my concerns. I had hoped you might advise me."

Granger looked back at him, expression softening. Voldemort could see the pity shining from her brown eyes, it irritated him intensely. "We all love Harry very much. I think if everyone sees that you love him, too, they'll be willing to try to look past everything that's happened for his sake." She paused, biting her lip. "Although perhaps it would be best if you didn't try to justify the murders you've committed. Or talk about them at all, for that matter."

"He has been encouraging me to be honest and - I quote - _be myself._ In my case, such a technique is would seem somewhat problematic. I apologise if I offended you, I have always had a little difficulty judging what is considered acceptable. When I was younger I assumed that others were simply weak, but Harry has made me realise that it is I who lacks certain components of feeling." How bitterly he had railed against such notions, but the Mudblood would see this from Harry's point of view and so it was Harry's views that he would give her.

Granger blinked. "Well, there's certainly nothing wrong with honesty, but no one likes to hear about how their loved ones deserved to be hurt, or killed." She paused. "Maybe - if you wouldn't want to hear someone saying something similar about _Harry _- maybe then you should keep it to yourself."

"If anyone offered such insult to Harry it would soon be _their_ loved ones grieving!" Voldemort hissed at her. He took a breath and looked away, inhaling slowly through his slitted nostrils, his fingers stroking across the scales of his Horcrux. "I am like a serpent drained of poison. It is disconcerting to be unable to corral with fear and magic. I have accustomed myself to dealing with Harry as an equal, but…" He left the rest of the thought unspoken, unwilling to venture down that hole far deeper than this pathetic scene. "How can you _abide_ this powerlessness? I am… I am _afraid _of Weasleys, of how they will react to Lord Voldemort. It is ludicrous and appalling!"

The girl's laughter had a quality of surprise to it before she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. "They're good people - _nice _people. And I'm certain they'll be much more afraid of you than you of them. I daresay you have a lot more in common than you realise."

But of course they feared Lord Voldemort. As it should be. "Perhaps," _and_ _they are pureblood, after all_, he considered. _They must conduct themselves with some semblance of dignity_. "Would you like another cup of tea, Miss Granger?"

"That's quite all right. Ron and I should probably be going, anyway - we're doing a bit of Christmas shopping with his sister this afternoon." Granger gave him a small smile. "I think you really are good for each other, you know. He cares very deeply about you. I've... never seen him stare at anyone like that before."

"Thank you, but am I to understand that we are expected to exchange… gifts?"

"Oh… well, we're doing something of a potluck this year, I think. You'll only need to bring one."

Voldemort gently shifted Nagini onto the floor and stood, "Ah, perhaps a souvenir from our travels…?" He held out a pale hand, "My thanks for your indulgence, Miss Granger."

The girl accepted his assistance off the chaise. "I know Harry can be - a bit of handful sometimes. If he's ever being difficult, and you'd like to talk about it, well - I'll do anything I can to help."

"I appreciate the offer, but I fear that, of the two of us, it is I who engenders the most difficulties. Still, Lord Voldemort shall bear your generosity in mind. Shall we head upstairs and put your beau out of his misery?"

Granger laughed, a light blush rising to her cheeks. "I'm surprised he's let us alone this long. Harry must have barricaded the door."

* * *

As soon as Harry had gotten Ron into the spare room, Harry shut the door behind him.

"But _Harry," _Ron whined. "We can't just leave her with him!"

"It'll be fine, Ron. I'm alone with him all the time, aren't I?"

"Yeah, but that's different. He's bloody soft on _you_. What does he even need to talk to her about, anyway?"

Harry ignored him, though he wordlessly locked the door behind him. Whatever it was, it probably wouldn't be made any easier by Ron bursting in on them in the middle.

It was a small room, crowded with trunks and boxes. They hadn't gotten around to unpacking much because they didn't plan to stay in Britain for very long. Harry had promised Tom that they would go somewhere near the equator after this, somewhere warm with plenty of shade for his eyes. But they had accumulated a lot of things during their travels, and this is where they kept it for the time being. A lot of it Voldemort thought could have been thrown away - jars of seashells, maps of local Muggle villages, bits of foreign currency - but Harry enjoyed looking at these mementos of their time together.

He knelt in front of a large trunk shoved up against the wall and opened its brass fastenings. "We spent three months in India last year. It rained most of the time, but I found this flying carpet while we were exploring one of the tombs. Got us in a bit of trouble with one of the guardians, but, well - we got out of there alive - and with _this._"

_"Woah,_" Ron breathed, Hermione momentarily forgotten, as Harry carefully unravelled a beautiful, brightly-coloured rug. The embroidered gold and silver thread glowed in response to Harry's touch. "Merlin, Harry, I've never actually seen one of these! They've been banned for as long as I can remember!"

"She flies brilliantly," said Harry, grinning at his carpet. It was by far the best thing he'd acquired so far during his journey with Voldemort. "Tom thinks it's a waste of time - I've yet to get him to come up with me - but it's so _smooth_, Ron, nothing like my Firebolt -"

"Hey - are those - are those photographs?" Ron was peeking over the edge of the trunk.

Harry laughed, a little sheepishly. "Er - yeah… it's from one of those disposable - hey!"

Ron had pulled out the stack of photos and was beginning to shuffle through them. "These aren't moving."

"Yeah, I bought it at a Muggle shop," Harry said. As a result, the majority had featured Voldemort looking sulky and irritated. "They don't move."

"I always forget. How boring." Ron had stopped to stare with a sort of horrified fascination at one of Tom laughing, red eyes frozen with pleasure. Harry didn't remember where they had taken that one. It didn't matter. It was Harry's favourite.

"I didn't know he could smile," said Ron quietly. "It's a bit - freaky, actually."

"Oh, shut up." Harry laughed and took the picture from him.

"I mean it, Harry! His mouth doesn't look like he was made to smile like that! It's too… I dunno… thin, and funny-looking."

Harry ran a thumb across the photograph's glossy surface. "I don't think it's as bad as all that." It was another moment before he realised Ron was staring at him. "What?"

"You really meant it before, didn't you? About... _loving _him."

"Yeah," Harry said firmly.

"And it's not - y'know - _weird? _Being with a bloke? Being with _him?"_

"I don't think so." Harry grinned. "He's quite a bit of fun, actually, once you loosen him up."

Ron shook his head. "Blimey, Harry, I don't know how you do it. I mean - it's _You-Know-Who. _What happens when you fight? How is it that he just stopped, y'know… _killing _people?"

Harry turned away with a sour taste in his mouth. He put the photos back in the trunk. "We've still got a long way to go, but… I think we're getting somewhere. No one's ever cared about him before. He's never had any friends."

"I wonder why," Ron muttered.

There was a sharp knocking on the door. "Ron!" It was Hermione. "Ron, we've finished! Are you in there?"

Ron jerked to attention. "Yes, dear!"

Harry snorted, and Ron turned bright red. "Yes, dear," Harry teased as they crossed the room, "right away, dear, anything for you, dear!"

Ron shoved him at the door, and Harry, laughing, opened it.

Both Voldemort and Hermione were standing in the hallway wearing equally serious expressions and looking thoroughly unimpressed by their tomfoolery.

"Er - hello, dear," said Harry, grinning. Ron kicked him.

The crimson eyes, glowing in the darkness of the corridor, narrowed. "I assume you have been showing off that ridiculous flying rug of yours?"

"Not everyone is lucky enough to fly all by themselves, you know. And I think it's a lovely rug!"

"You mean to say… he can _fly?" _Ron squeaked out. Voldemort smirked.

"Don't be ridiculous, Ron," Hermione corrected him loftily, "No spell yet devised enables wizards to fly unaided in human form."

"Yes, don't be ridiculous, Ron," Harry said, sniggering. "That's impossible."

Voldemort, obviously torn between playing along and basking in Ron's awe, gave a light little laugh and suggested they continue this discussion later.

* * *

Once the door had shut behind them, Harry lasted all of three seconds before he threw his arms around Voldemort's thin body and pulled him close. All his apprehensions and doubts from their endless night apart scattered; the image of Lord Voldemort bathed in gore and manic bloodthirst that had slipped silently into his nightmares gave way to the reality of Tom, here in his arms, vulnerable and full of love for him.

Tom returned the hug with equal fervor. _"How I have missed you,"_ he breathed in a rush of Parseltongue.

"I looked for you last night," Harry said quietly. "When I was dreaming... I couldn't find you."

"I was unable to sleep…" Thin lips kissed his forehead, "I have not rested since you left. I do hope your exploits were worthy of my anxiety."

Harry smiled against Tom's smooth, cool neck. "My chat with Dumbledore went very well, if that's what you're trying to get out of me." Voldemort swallowed against Harry's lips and made a small noise of displeasure in the back of his throat at the mention of Professor Dumbledore. "He sends his fond regards."

"_Does he?" _Voldemort snapped, affronted.

Harry laughed softly. "You're the one who wanted to know." Voldemort hissed and fidgeted as though he wanted to pull away from the embrace, but didn't. Harry gave him a kiss on the neck to reward him. Tom hissed again, frustrated, but unable to find the strength to resist Harry's kisses, trembling in his arms. "C'mon, don't be that way," Harry murmured, his smiling mouth finding Voldemort's ear. _"I thought about you all night long, you know..."_

A very different sort of hiss shivered out of those flat nostrils and Tom leaned against his chest. This was what he couldn't tell Ron - that he could make Lord Voldemort_ melt_. That it was not just about simply keeping the Dark Lord pacified. That nothing in the world gave Harry greater pleasure than unraveling this lovely, perfect, fragile creature, than finding the right words to murmur and the right places to brush his fingers until Tom was wrecked and quivering andkeening and _his._

"Thank you," Harry said softly, lips moving against Tom's ear, before he got too carried away. "For today, I mean. You were wonderful."

Another small rush of unsteady breath against his skin and, with it, the release between them of all the whispering fears, insecurities, cruelties, and violent impulses that had crawled across his lover's mind while they had been apart. Tom's voice was small and pleading. "Do not make me do this, my love. I am not as ready as you believe me to be." _I will snap, and you will not forgive me. _

"You _are,"_ Harry told him, sliding his hands up Voldemort's jaw and drawing the crimson eyes to meet Harry's own. "I wouldn't ask you to if I didn't know you were."

"How can you know such a thing?" he demanded, tilting his head into the cradle of Harry's fingers.

"Because I know _you,_" Harry murmured, stroking Tom's hairless jaw, "better than you know yourself sometimes." _Because you wouldn't do that to us again._

"_You are my soul," _he keened desperately, _"you know what I am."_

"_Exactly," _Harry breathed, and kissed him. It was a deep, burning kiss, swollen with Harry's certain and unwavering desire.

"_My Harry..." _the forked tongue curled between their mouths. _"If you are certain of this course, we ought to make the most of our last night alone…"_

_"Brilliant idea," _Harry smiled against those lips, and his hands ran slowly, lovingly down Tom's torso, coming to rest on his narrow hips. He trailed his nose up his lover's smooth jawline. "_In fact_... perhaps we ought to figure out how long you can keep quiet while I touch you… y'know, just in case…"

A shudder ran through that tall, thin body and beautiful fingers pulled him upstairs in wordless, excited agreement.


	4. Breakfast at the Burrow

**4. Breakfast at the Burrow**

The snow from the night before lay in scant, mottled patches, clinging to the long, untended fields of Ottery St Catchpole. He and Harry stood arm and arm in the middle of a narrow, country lane - their cases safely shrunk and stowed away in the deep pockets of their robes. Thankfully, it was a dull, overcast morning, dark with the promise of rain, so he had no need to veil his eyes overmuch. Still, it was brighter than he would prefer. Voldemort, cloaked and hooded, lifted his nose to the crisp morning air. "So which way to this… warren?"

_"Burrow," _Harry corrected him, smiling up at him with green eyes, "and it's just down the lane here. C'mon." His Horcrux did not feel the cold as much as he; his hood hung loose around his shoulders, leaving his dark, wild hair to the breeze. The tips of his ears were slightly pink from the weather. Voldemort reached across to ruffle that messy hair with his gloved fingers.

"Very well," but the further they walked the more reluctant Voldemort became. Eventually, the Weasley homestead came into view beyond a small copse of trees. It seemed to be a ramshackle collection of pastoral detritus, a pile of haphazard charms stacked one atop the other over long decades. A single, well-placed counter-charm would, in all probability, bring down the entire edifice. Chickens clucked and scratched in the yard. A rusted cauldron lay on its side. At least the five smoking chimneys meant it must, at the very least, be warm in there. Voices carried from inside:

"But _Muuuuum!"_

"Absolutely not! You are not going anywhere until you've finished with that attic!"

"But no one even goes up there, Mum! And the stupid ghoul keeps following me around and knocking things over!_" _

"Harry is going to be here at any moment, young lady, and when he does this house is going to be _spotless! _Now go finish or - GEORGE WEASLEY, YOU STOP THROWING THOSE DOWN THE STAIRS THIS INSTANT - _or you won't be leaving your room for the next week!"_

"I'm twenty years old, Mum!"

"And for the next month you are still living under my roof, so until then you will follow my rules! Now _go finish upstairs!"_

Harry smiled sheepishly up at him, squeezing his arm. "Er - that'll be Mrs. Weasley. She can get a bit… overexcited."

"So I hear," Voldemort murmured, brows raised.

Harry sniggered helplessly for a moment, and then his smile softened. Voldemort felt his young lover's mind skipping across his thoughts, sensing the tension there. Harry reached up suddenly and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. "Relax. It's going to be fine. I promise."

Voldemort accepted the kiss gratefully, coating himself with Harry's confidence, taking one last, heady mouthful of warmth, soul, scent, and comfort before the inevitable. "Ought we to announce ourselves now or give them a moment to finish their argument?"

"They'll be going all day if we leave them to it," Harry grinned at him. "Let's go."

As if on cue, a red-headed figure appeared in one of the many disparate windows, and an excited voice rang out clearly across the yard: "HARRY'S HERE!" Voldemort took one discrete step behind his lover and hoped that no one would notice.

Harry laughed and looked back at him. "Come on! Let's go introduce you." A hot hand gripped his wrist and dragged him forward as Harry opened the front door, which was not locked. The kitchen was small and cramped and Voldemort almost hit his head on the lintel as Harry pulled him inside. The room was dominated by a large kitchen table, laden with delicious-smelling breakfast. His nostrils flared appreciatively while his stomach turned at the thought of such rich fare.

There was a flurry of footsteps from the stairs in the corridor, and Harry's red-headed friend came sliding into the kitchen. "Harry!" he exclaimed happily, and then, upon spotting Voldemort, "And - um - hello again…"

More noise from the stairwell, and then a short, plump, red-headed woman appeared in the doorway. Her flushed face lit up immediately upon seeing his Horcrux, eyes filling with tears, and Harry positively beamed at her. "Oh, Harry, dear - how you've _grown -"_

She flew forward and pulled him tight against her considerable bosom, and Harry laughed and returned the hug. Voldemort ground his teeth.

A variety of rude noises suddenly rang out from the stairs, and Mrs. Weasley released his lover and spun around, face going red with fury. "Fred and George Weasley, _what did I tell you -?!"_

Clambering footsteps, and then two more red-headed young men appeared in the already overcrowded kitchen. They were identical twins, with identical smug, Gryffindor grins on their faces. One of them was holding a spring contraption which blew an offensive raspberry sound at them as it uncoiled. "Sorry, Mum, you know how it is - work never stops when you've got your own business -"

"It very well will stop for the holiday! Especially when we've got _guests-!" _she hissed, gesturing at Harry and Voldemort.

Suddenly, everyone seemed to be staring at him. Voldemort took a deep breath to speak, but then yet _another _person came charging down the stairs - how many of these Weasleys could there possibly be? - and a young woman with flaming red hair appeared behind her brothers.

"Harry," she breathed with a soft smile. Then she caught sight of Lord Voldemort and the colour drained from her face.

The silence that descended over the kitchen seemed, at last, to be final.

"Er - hello, everyone," said Harry, squeezing the Dark Lord's arm reassuringly. "I'd - introduce you, but I think you, um, all know Voldemort already…?"

"Hello," said the Weasley's youngest son faintly. The rest of them simply stared.

"Good morning," he said quietly, stepping out from behind Harry and pushing back the hood of his cloak. He blinked, squinting in the light of the wide, kitchen windows. "I am aware that many of you fear and revile me, so it would seem appropriate to address your quite sensible concerns. I have vowed," he did not say it was not a magical vow, "not to harm any of you, or indeed anyone, during our stay in England. I appreciate that your welcome has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Harry." He glanced fondly down at the young man beside him. "This peace between us is due entirely to his efforts. Nevertheless I am grateful to be invited into this, your home."

He glided a few steps forward, towards the group of nervous, staring faces, and sank into a deep, elegant bow. It made him feel like a child again, all politeness and veiled wrath. "I am a wizard of very little wealth, but prodigious means. Ask, and I shall render you whatever assistance it is within Lord Voldemort's power to grant." He straightened, assuming his best humble orphan expression, and eyed the mother of the Weasley brood. "Nor do I speak merely of great feats of magic. Of myself and Harry, I am more often than not the one doing the cooking and cleaning and, I assure you, you will not find me too proud to assist with such." The red eyes gleamed.

He took off his heavy cloak, folding it over one arm, revealing yet more layers of black: long-sleeved, oriental robes of warm, finely-spun Nepalese cashmere. "As to my name, I ask you to please refrain from such soubriquets as You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and refer to me by my title if you cannot bring yourselves to call me Voldemort." He carefully observed those who flinched and those who did not.

Mrs. Weasley was the first to speak, though her voice shook slightly. "Well, I have it on Dumbledore's word that no harm will come to our family. And any friend of Harry's is a friend of ours. Thank you for accepting our invitation." She paused to clear her throat. "This is Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny - and I'm Molly, of course."

"A pleasure," he nodded, though being the object of so many naked stares was beginning to irritate him. Their eyes roved over his inhuman physiology in with an unabashed curiosity. His Death Eaters would never dare to regard their lord with such disrespect.

Harry seemed to sense this, because he turned to the woman and said, "Blimey, Mrs. Weasley, breakfast smells delicious!"

"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands together nervously. "Why don't we start eating? Have a seat, dears - that's it -"

"Sure you don't want me to finish with the attic first, Mum? What if they want to go eat upstairs?" the girl said sweetly as she passed her mother.

Harry tugged the Dark Lord to the end of the table, where he was seated between Harry and his red-headed friend. The twins sat down across from them, still with their narrowed, unnerving stares. The girl sat next to her twin brothers.

"So. _Voldemort." _One of the twins leaned forward on his elbows. "Hermione mentioned yesterday that you enjoy experimenting with new types of magic." _Oh yes_, he thought to himself snidely, _her parents were extremely useful in that regard. _

"Oh, lay off that already, would you?" said the youngest Weasley boy irritably. "I'm sure he's got loads better things to do than help you think up joke products."

"They're not _joke _products!" said the other twin, offended, and turned back to Lord Voldemort. "I'll have you know that you're speaking to two of the most successful entrepreneurs in Britain."

"_And _the most handsome, according to _Witch Weekly_," said the other, and Harry's red-headed friend groaned loudly beside him.

"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley snapped as she bustled back to the table with a pitcher of juice. "What have I told you about discussing your Wheezes at the breakfast table?!"

"Well," Voldemort cleared his throat, a little overwhelmed by so much chatter, "magic is a fluid substance. We divide it into all manner of disciplines, construct theories around its proper and improper uses, but it should never have been taught as an academic subject. Rather, it is an _art_, and its truest virtues are intuition, experimentation, and imagination."

"_Wow," _breathed one of the twins. They were both staring at him with expressions of newfound admiration. "Now _here's _a bloke that gets it. D'you hear that, Mum? From the mouth of Lord Voldemort himself - magic should _never_ be taught as an academic subject!"

"George!" Ron Weasley kicked his brother under the table. "You can't just talk to him like that!"

"It is what I believe," Voldemort said carefully, "but then, most wizards and witches would view my life as a cautionary tale on the subject of experimentation…"

"We _live _for experimentation," the other twin told him, his brother nodding sagely. "We've endangered our beautiful faces with beards and wrinkles for the sake of experimentation!"

"We've sprouted boils in unmentionable places for the sake of experimentation!"

"What's life without experimental magic?"

"A whole lot easier on one's poor mother, I'd imagine," Mrs. Weasley said crossly, pouring them glasses of orange juice, "but then again, I wouldn't know, would I? Now if you don't stop talking about these _awful_ joke products, boys - he's only being polite, listening to you go on like this -"

_Later_, one of the twins mouthed at him, and the girl began to giggle.

"Voldemort once turned himself into a camel, you know," Harry said casually, taking a sip of juice.

His red eyes narrowed and he treated Harry to a dirty look, "Might I trouble you for water rather than juice, please, Mrs Weasley?" he asked politely before turning back to the twins who were now mouthing _camel _incredulously, and grinning across at him. "Technically, Harry, I did not turn myself into a camel, I merely - to my great shame - incorrectly dispelled an ancient anti-intruder hex whilst exploring a buried city in the Sinai. Still, the local bedouin said I was the most evil-looking camel they had ever seen."

"I'm sure they were quaking in their sandals," Harry murmured, grinning around his cup.

"Merlin's beard! Did you figure out the spell?" the twin on the left demanded. "Imagine that, Fred! A locational hex that transfigures people into animals! I wonder if you could enchant something edible with it…?"

"Mammal Enamel!" grinned the other, "Turn your enemies into camels!"

"Boys, this is your last warning," Mrs Weasley said furiously, and then, with a quick smile, she handed the Dark Lord a glass of water and seated herself at the head of the table. "Now, then - Ron tells me the two of you have done quite a bit of travelling together?"

"Ah - my thanks..." It was difficult to know who to answer. "Well, naturally, I discerned the nature of the spell and one might indeed implant an edible object with such an enchantment with only a basic alteration to the curse's trigger - perhaps saliva…?" He sniffed the water discretely then, satisfied it was without contaminants, took a small sip. "But yes, we have just returned from Brazil." He realised he was still wearing his gloves at the table. "Oh, forgive my manners…" He began pulling them off, embarrassed to be caught out in such a way when he was making every effort to show these blood traitors respect for Harry's sake.

"Oh, no need to apologise - especially dining with the likes of _these _two..."

The twins did not seem to notice, however; one of them had whipped out a small notebook and was scribbling intensely, and they were both talking in low voices about hex triggers and marketing campaigns.

"We've been all over the world," Harry said quickly, before Mrs Weasley could chastise them for this. A small hand slipped under the table to squeeze his knee in reassurance, and Voldemort was overwhelmed by the happiness radiating from his Horcrux's young soul. "It's been brilliant so far, hasn't it?"

"Oh yes," he echoed softly, caught up in Harry's emotions, "brilliant." It was becoming difficult to think. The crimson eyes glazed over, their slit pupils dilate. Skin itching for Harry's caress, Voldemort attempted to distract himself with breakfast. There was a pile of warm bread-rolls that did not seem too daunting. He reached for one with a pale, spidery hand and began to butter it meticulously all over even though he knew he would hardly eat more than a few mouthfuls. He offered half to Harry.

His young man had already piled his plate full of eggs and bacon, but Harry accepted the roll with a small, knowing smile.

"Things have been busy here as well, as you can imagine," Mrs Weasley was saying, "what with the new baby, and of course there's little Teddy changing colour every ten minutes… and did Ron tell you? Ginny's gotten an offer from the Harpies!"

"Ginny!" Harry exclaimed, turning to the girl, who blushed to the roots of her red hair. "That's incredible!"

"Mum's getting ahead of herself," the girl said, seeming both pleased and embarrassed by the attention. "I'm only a reserve at the moment -"

"She leaves for Wales to train in January," Mrs Weasley interrupted tearfully, and patted a small, gold talon that she had pinned to her bosom. "Imagine... our Ginny... a Holyhead Harpy..."

One of the twins gave a great, dramatic sniff into his handkerchief, and the girl elbowed him viciously.

"We ought to pitch a game while you're here, Harry!" said Ron Weasley suddenly. "We'll have enough for a team again!"

"Voldemort can play as well! I was teaching him a bit about Quidditch down in Brazil!" said Harry. "They were much keener on Quodpot down there though… rubbish sport…"

"Harry exaggerates both my ability and my interest," Voldemort said rather quickly and coldly, suddenly realising that he was being volunteered. "Even at school I had little interest in Quidditch and very seldom turned up to support the Slytherin team. Now _duelling_," the crimson eyes glittered, "_there _is a sport I enjoy." His voice softened as he described such deadly beauty. "Two sorcerers in single combat and nothing between them but magic. It is _perfection_. It is only in that dance of skill and power that you discover if you truly are all that you imagine yourself to be. But whatever happened to the Hogwarts Duelling Club? I do hope it was not retired with Professor Merrythought."

It was a moment before he realised that all five Weasleys had stopped eating and were staring at him. A piece of bacon was dangling from the youngest boy's gaping mouth.

"Er - well, there _was_ a duelling club in second year," Harry said quickly, rushing to fill the silence. "But I'm not exactly sure if that counts…"

"Yeah, it was mostly just Lockhart demonstrating duelling stances that best showed off his arse -"

"- followed by Snape knocking him straight onto it."

"Only time I ever liked the greasy git," Ron Weasley muttered into his juice.

"Boys!" said Mrs Weasley, aghast. "Language!"

"And then there were those meetings Harry taught when Umbridge was around," the girl said, giving his Horcrux an admiring look. Harry looked away, embarrassed.

"Pardon me," Voldemort interjected, "but who is Lockhart, and what meetings did Harry conduct? He has not spoken to me of either of these things."

"Gilderoy Lockhart," said Mrs Weasley, bristling, "is the crackpot who exploited many witches and wizards for deeds far greater than he could have ever accomplished! He led the public along for years, and made a great deal of money from it!"

"Mum's still sore about it. She was mad about him," one of the twins muttered for Voldemort's benefit.

"I absolutely was not!" she protested, with high spots of colour in her cheeks.

"Oh, but Mum, his golden locks! His shining smile!"

Harry seemed to be shovelling more food into his mouth than usual - perhaps to keep from answering Voldemort's other question.

"I see…" the Dark Lord said carefully, respecting Harry's wish, he would inquire about the meetings once they were alone once more. He too, had held gatherings, teaching his fellow Slytherins magic forbidden by the Ministry. "it seems I missed a great deal in my exile. Still, such a pity about the duelling club - I suppose I must hold myself responsible. Traditionally, the running of the club was the purview of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

"Well, none of them have ever stuck around long enough to teach it, have they? S'not your fault - I mean, unless you were just picking them off yourself somehow -"

"George!" Harry's friend hissed, although it came out mangled through a mouthful of food.

"The job is cursed," said Harry. "Everyone knows that."

"Ah…" Voldemort said awkwardly.

"Not that it matters," Harry went on, oblivious. "Most of them could hardly teach their own classes, let alone a duelling club. Must have been downright fortunate for you, though - the one class that might have helped train people to stop you…" He trailed off, turning to Voldemort with a look of dawning comprehension. "Hang on... it was _you!"_

"You were never curious as to who cursed the position?" Voldemort asked lightly, picking delicately at his bread roll, avoiding outright admitting it was indeed he.

"Er…" His Horcrux looked rather embarrassed. "Honestly... no."

"That's _brilliant_," Fred Weasley burst out. "Cursing an entire position! And to think that it's lasted so long! Have you ever considered a career in retail, my good Lord, because this sort of magical genius is _wasted _on those half-wit Death Eaters of yours."

The crimson eyes did a complete double-take - _my good Lord?_ - and he hardly knew how to respond. "Much as I... appreciate your sentiments, the year and a half I spent working in a shop as a young man was quite enough for me. I daresay half the hexed items Mr Borgin passes off as ancient artifacts of rare properties were enchanted by me. As to the spell, it has lasted as long as it has because, as the Heir of Slytherin, I bound it into the foundations of the castle. Also, it has an extremely simple counter-curse - the best curses often do." _The Headmaster merely had to offer the position to Lord Voldemort._

"It's probably for the best, honestly," said the youngest Weasley boy, who had returned to his breakfast, "imagine getting stuck for seven years with the likes of Quirrell… _urgh…"_

"_Do not_ complain to me, Ronald Weasley, of being_ stuck_ with Quirinus Quirrell!" Voldemort hissed with a shudder. At first it had seemed wonderful, to simply inhabit a human, but the airless, claustrophobia of that turban had driven him to distraction, encased in quivering skin not his own. And Quirrell had been so _weak,_ begging to be released, begging not to have to slay a unicorn, incapable of undertaking even the smallest of tasks without guidance.

The Weasley boy made a small, high-pitched noise of distress beside him, fork slipping from his fingers. "I - er - never really thought about it that way - honest -"

Voldemort gave an irritated sniff and then nodded, picking at his bread in reserved silence, resisting a strong urge to subject the young wizard beside him to the Cruciatus Curse. He hoped no one would press him on the matter.

"At least he wasn't completely useless," said George Weasley with a complete lack of discretion. "You would've been fine if he ever came up on a vampire, what with all that garlic in his turban…"

Beside him, Harry began to choke on his bacon.

"What an epitaph," Voldemort said dryly, biting back the rage that was beginning to heat up behind his eyes. "Ten years after his death and all anyone has to say is at least he was not completely useless. Not that I disagree," he added spitefully, "but unfortunately one is obliged to make do with the tools at one's disposal." Young, foolish, and gullible, Quirrell had been no match for Voldemort's gifts for persuasion. A wizard ripe for use, he had seized upon him with all his might.

Mrs Weasley glared at her sons. "Whatever else he was, Professor Quirrell was a poor, misguided young man. It doesn't do to speak ill of the dead." He had died with Voldemort still inside him. The screaming ceased, the trembling flesh slackened, and the mind went dark. Then had followed a desperate disentanglement from that still, awful meat. It was a headlong, windborne rush of a journey – thought tumbling over thought with mile after mile – on footless, fleeting shadow. Harried by despair and driven onward by fear, crying out past fast-flying land and sea in a wordless shriek of thwarted fury.

His face lost any expression and he stared blankly at the bread roll he had barely touched. It had been summer in the forest - he remembered - the same as when he'd left it: warm rocks, shallow streams, and a breeze rustling the leafy canopy. After coming so close, the sight had dissolved his mind further into insanity. _Eleven years. How many more?_ _Will another even come? Is this to be my eternity? _Then, he had truly given up hope of ever regaining all that he had lost…

_Perhaps, _Harry's voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts, deceptively sweet, _if you hadn't been trying to cut down a bloody eleven year old boy, you wouldn't have had to wonder!_ He caught Voldemort's eye and glared, but his tight mouth softened upon seeing the Dark Lord's face. _Hey. _The tip of a shoe nudged at his ankle as Harry dipped deeper into his thoughts, frowning. _Hey, you're here. It's all right. You're with me._

The rest of the table did not seem to notice their silent exchange. Ronald Weasley was staring at his blood-traitor mother, aghast. "But Mum, he nearly killed Harry!"

"Not such a foul crime these days, is it?" muttered one of the grinning twins to his brother.

"That is quite enough, boys," Mrs Weasley snapped, pushing back her chair. Voldemort noticed that everyone else had finished their plates. "Outside with you. That garden is not going to de-gnome itself!"

"But Mum," the youngest boy whined, "it's _cold!"_

"Then perhaps you should have done it yesterday as I suggested, when the sun was still out! Now get to it!"

When his Horcrux began moving to get up, however, the woman held out a hand to stop him. "Oh, not _you_, dear - Ginny will be showing you upstairs. Ron's got a bed made up in his room for you, Harry, and for _you_," she said, turning to Voldemort with a strained smile, "we've set up Bill's old room."

_He would not be sleeping in the same bed as his beloved Horcrux? _And he had left dear Nagini behind in London with an ample supply of prey. _Alone_. The thought was abhorrent. "Surely-" he began, but Harry interrupted.

"Excellent - thank you, Mrs Weasley, that should be great." Harry was smiling at her.

And then there was raucous laughter and a loud _bang_ from outside and Molly Weasley was out the door and yelling at her sons before Voldemort had a chance to protest Harry's acquiescence.

* * *

"Why on earth did you agree to this absurd arrangement?" Voldemort demanded coldly, ignoring Ginny, who was waiting to show them upstairs.

"Bill's old room isn't that terrible," said Harry flippantly. "It's the biggest in the house. And besides, Ron's always smells of dirty socks. Nobody would want to stay there." He stared hard into Tom's eyes, words laden with unspoken meaning.

"Why, does he not wash them?" Voldemort asked, clearly not catching on.

Ginny smiled at Harry slyly. "He does when Hermione comes by."

"Like your mum would let her within two feet of his room," Harry said quickly.

Ginny snorted. "As if that stops them once Mum's gone to bed."

Harry pointedly raised his brow, and Tom's crimson eyes narrowed in understanding. "How commendable of your mother to hold to such traditions." His dry tone said exactly the opposite.

Harry couldn't agree more. It was going to be a very long holiday.


	5. De-gnoming the Garden

**5. De-gnoming the Garden**

"She's been absolutely impossible all week long," Ginny said as she led them through the hall and up the stairs. She directed her conversation mostly at Harry, although she kept sneaking wary glances over her shoulder at Voldemort. "Even more so than usual - it's because of you, obviously. Did you know she had me scrubbing the floor in the attic above Ron's room? I couldn't even do it properly by magic - that's how long it's been since someone's even touched those floorboards..."

They reached Voldemort's assigned room on the third floor and Ginny opened the door. It was a sparse room. From the looks of the walls and the floor, a whole lot of pictures and furniture had been moved out of it in a hurry, leaving the place looking rather empty and unfriendly. The bed was a single one, covered in a dark green quilt that looked suspiciously like it had been charmed and its original colour had been quite different. Harry realised with a sudden jolt of satisfaction that, through being with Tom, he was becoming more sensitive to magic.

His lover glided into the middle of the room, cloak on his arm, taking it all it with an oddly speculative look on his face. "Would adding a sixth chimney be out of the question?" he asked Ginny without taking his gaze away from the room.

"Um…" Ginny looked rather taken aback. She turned to face Tom directly for the first time since the three of them had been left alone together. "I suppose we could ask my father to conjure one for you when he gets home later…"

"I could not possibly put Mr Weasley to the trouble," Tom replied politely, though Harry could feel frustration beginning to edge into their connection. "I am extremely proficient in architectural magic, I assure you, I -" There was a shout from outside, and the red eyes were suddenly riveted to the window, which overlooked the garden. "What_ are _they doing?"

"They're... de-gnoming the garden, of c-course." She seemed to be gradually gaining confidence. "We've got quite a few of them… Dad keeps letting them sneak back in..."

"Gnomes… you…they...?" Tom looked to be fighting a losing battle against his incredulity.

Ginny raised her eyebrows. "You know… knobby, ugly-looking things? They sort of… stumble around and grunt?"

"I am aware of what gnomes_ are_," he continued to stare as Fred threw a gnome over the hedge and into the swampy pond with a triumphant yodle, "I simply cannot fathom why three grown wizards are twirling them above their heads."

"Well they're mostly resistant to magic," Ginny said, giving him a strange look. "Not to mention it's quite fun."

Voldemort turned to stare at her intently, "Perhaps I misunderstand, is the goal not to rid the garden of gnomes?"

If Ginny was at all unnerved by Lord Voldemort scrutinising her, she didn't show it. Harry felt a spike of pride for his friend. "It's obviously a bit of work, but it's more humane than the alternative."

"But surely, even if exterminating them were not to your liking, you could employ any number of wards, charms, or hexes to ensure that the gnomes never enter the garden?"

Ginny snorted. "Good luck finding one that works. They're quite stubborn."

Tom pulled on his cloak, "Then you simply require a stubborn sorcerer," and with a smooth hiss of air, he disapparated, only to reappear in the garden below, causing Ron to stumble and almost fall on his arse in the mud.

Ginny rushed over to the window, scowling. "He really thinks he's going to figure it out! As if Mum hasn't been trying for_ years!"_

"Honestly, Gin," Harry smirked, "the best way to get him to do something is to tell him it's impossible."

* * *

Voldemort paced the boundaries of the garden, examining the hedge and the surrounding area. He drew his trunk out of his pocket and returned it to its proper size. His apothecary and ritual tools, he was fairly certain, were in the fifth compartment, as it was his habit to pack according to arithmantic symbolism. He wavered between bowls – and eventually drew out the wooden one; oak to strengthen the protective nature of the ritual. It hovered in the air in front of him.

Gnomes scurried about underfoot, agitated by the commotion, but Voldemort spared them little more than a sneer. Their natural predator, he vaguely recalled from Professor Kettleburn's lessons, was the musteline Jarvey. He opened a jar of Jarvey teeth and placed four carefully in the bowl. Then, he summoned the largest, strongest specimen he could and caught it in his right hand. The foul thing grunted obscenities at him. "Such language," the Dark Lord murmured softly, opening the gnome from neck to navel with a Slicing Hex and letting its blood drip into the bowl, covering the Jarvey teeth in crimson fluid. The thing shrieked and thrashed – and then went limp.

"Might I have a lock of your hair?" he asked one of the twins politely, as the creature burned away to ash in his fingers.

The young man was staring at him, open-mouthed with shock. "Er... about before… I - didn't mean to offend you in any way-"

"What d'you think you're doing-?!" Ronald Weasley cried at Voldemort in outrage. "Those are our gnomes!"

"It shall strengthen your garden's defence against these pests immeasurably. An essential component of the fourth ritual triangle: blood, teeth, and hair. Your hair is the thread that will bind the spell to this garden. Sowing the ground with bloodied Jarvey teeth will only do so much. You sister told me that you had yet to find a spell to keep them out. If you are concerned about the one who had the honour to be of use," he wiped the ashes off on his cloak, "consider the suffering he will save his fellow _Gernumbli gardensi." _Voldemort paused, staring at their pale, wide-eyed faces, and their horrified thoughts. "Ah, you consider these creatures pets," he sighed, "It seems I have misunderstood."

"You can't just waltz into people's gardens and slice up their gnomes!" the youngest boy said furiously. "That is not bloody on!"

There were two loud, inelegant cracks behind him, and Voldemort felt Harry's presence join him in the garden. He could sense that his Horcrux had been arguing with the girl.

"It could've been worse, honestly," said one of the twins lightly. "He was certainly the heaviest one to swing about, wasn't he?"

"George! _He killed it!"_

"He was only trying to help," Harry said quickly, appearing at Voldemort's side. He shot his friend a beseeching look and then glanced agitatedly at the Dark Lord: _What did I tell you about killing things, Tom -?!_

He hardly knew what to do, river of thought abruptly halted by this onslaught of objection, ritual bowl still hovering in front of him. Voldemort plucked it from the air. He abhorred waste. The Jarvey teeth were worthless now. "It would have been an interesting piece of magic, and would merely prevent them from disturbing the garden itself," he said, carefully keeping a defensive tone from his voice, "they would have been quite free to roam the yard and its surrounds." Voldemort tried to think of what Harry would want him to say, "I apologise for killing your gnome without permission. It was thoughtless of me." It was a filthy pest. _What a ridiculous amount of fuss for such a vile, lowly creature. _

"Give him a break, Ron," said Fred Weasley, scowling at his brother, and then to Voldemort, "The thought is - er - appreciated, but I don't honestly think Mum would be too keen on the idea of the Dark Lord performing blood magic in the garden."

"She certainly wasn't all right with us performing some in the kitchen," the other twin muttered.

Voldemort vanished the components and stacked his bowl neatly with the others. "Such rituals were not generally considered Dark magic until these last few centuries. They are an older form of magic that hails from Britain's druidic past. It is common to use the blood of many creatures in potion-making, yet such brews are not considered malign."

"Try telling that to_ Mum_," George Weasley sighed regretfully. "So many perfectly good ideas... because they might have been _slightly_ illegal."

He shut the lid of his trunk and tapped it with his wand. It dissolved into the air, sent up to the room Mrs Weasley had assigned him. "Unfortunately, this sort of magic is no longer taught in schools, perhaps on account of its very permanence, and thus ridiculous suspicions have arisen around its uses. If that is your concern I assure you I am a Master of Sanguimancy, a title which I obtained with perfect legality by way of the Prague Academy of Arcane Arts."

A venerable institution Voldemort would recommend to any young wizard seeking higher magical education. It was one of the few places that, in his time, had still offered students a double Mastery in Sanguimancy and Necromancy. Of course, that was mostly due to the efforts of dear old Professor Raskolnikov, who had been splendidly lax about how his students obtained the subjects and ingredients necessary for their studies, and whose tenure ended so spectacularly when he killed five Russian Aurors sent to arrest him and fled to America.

"Well, you don't need a Mastery from an academy to de-gnome a garden," the other twin said, grinning. "Perhaps you only got a glimpse of Ron here trying to throw them - he's quite pathetic, really -"

"_Hey!"_

"- but if you know what you're doing, it really makes for some good sport!"

The Dark Lord sighed inwardly. In order to retain his standing with Harry's young friends, he would clearly be obliged to have a go at this ludicrous activity. Voldemort closed his eyes, feeling for the tiny residue of power in the gnomes. It was slippery, certainly, like a layer of magical grease. Theirs was an earthly puissance, it would not respond well to wandwork. He tilted his head back, extending his tongue, listening, smelling,_ feeling_ the little creatures out. "A good sport, you say?" he hissed quietly. "Very well, Lord Voldemort shall try it." Curling his long fingers into claws, he ripped a mass of grunting, jabbering _prey _from their holes - some base, reptilian part of his brain longing to strike and devour their warm, raw little bodies - and, disgusted, flung them as far away from him as he could.

One of the boys swore softly under his breath. "Blimey," another muttered. The gnomes had been sent far over the garden hedge, a great distance into the field beyond.

"Brilliant," said Harry, beaming, his pride flooding across their shared link, and with it came the fluttering, heady sensation that usually meant Harry was about to kiss him.

"Are you sure you haven't done this before?" one of the twins asked him.

"Did he just do three at a time?"

"How did he even find them in the ground like that?"

Voldemort opened his eyes into light. The thick, grey clouds had lessened and the hood of his cloak had slipped back. He rid his hands of dirt with a quick shake of his wrists, banishing the filth from his skin. The sun was not blinding, but it made his head ache. Squinting, he raised long fingers to shade his scarlet eyes. "I have my ways," he replied softly. Voldemort reached for Harry's mind, gave it a lingering psychic caress, and stepped away from the group. He had no business playing such a game with these children and it was cold out here in the garden. "I believe I shall retire to my room to unpack and leave you all to your amusements." And, with a smooth hiss, he disapparated.

* * *

The entire garden seemed to let out a collective breath. Several gnomes peeked out from their holes, but no one paid them any attention; everyone was staring at the empty spot where Tom had just disappeared.

"Scary, isn't he?" Ron said in a low voice.

"Scary?" Fred pulled off his gloves. "If you're a gnome, maybe. I dunno what you did to him, Harry, but he's gone right bloody soft."

"Not sure I would say _that -" _Harry began, but George interrupted him.

"You've got to be joking! Just when we thought there was nothing else you could do, Harry, you've gone and domesticated You-Know-Who. How did you manage it?"

Ron became very interested in a nearby growth of Gurdyroot.

"Oh, I dunno," Harry said vaguely, "it's sort of a long story…"

"Hot chocolate!" Mrs Weasley's cheerful voice rang out across the yard, and Harry, grateful for the distraction, led the way back to the house. They sat at the picnic table outside the back door, sipping their steaming drinks and breathing deeply of the winter air. A few of the gnomes were trying to hoist themselves back over the hedge and into the garden again, but no one tried to stop them. Everyone was too busy bombarding Harry with questions about his exploits around the globe

"But how did you end up inside the volcano in the first place?" George asked, leaning forward.

"Well, I thought it would be neat to see what was inside," Harry said, a little embarrassed. "So I - er - took my broom and... went to have a look." As far as justifications went, he'd thought it was perfectly reasonable. Naturally, Tom had disagreed. Explosively. "We needed the volcanic rock anyway!" he went on, as though Tom were there too, still arguing with him. "For a potion he was making - I don't see why it was such a big fuss - I left before it erupted -"

"Did you get it?"

"Obviously!"

"Then what was the problem?"

"Well I might've - er - gotten into a bit of a fix with a herd of heliopaths…" At their stunned expressions, he quickly added, "but it wasn't an issue, of course - I had it completely under control - even if Voldemort hadn't turned up I would've been able to handle it on my own -"

Ron snorted, and Fred shook his head, grinning. "You-Know-Who, saving your life. A bit ironic, isn't it?"

"He didn't _save_ anyone! I had it completely under control!"

"At least he's good for something," Ron muttered, and George laughed.

"He's good for plenty of things," Harry snapped, with more irritation than he'd meant.

"I think he's awful," Ginny said coldly, speaking up for the first time since they'd come outside. "I don't know how you can stand it, being around him all the time. I would be miserable."

Everyone was suddenly staring at him. Harry forced himself to meet their gazes, feeling defensive and ashamed. "Well, I'm not."

George stared at him. "This_ is_ You-Know-Who we're talking about, right?"

"I know perfectly well who he is!" Harry exclaimed. He forced himself to pause, exhaling angrily. "And I know what he's done - honestly, I reckon _I_ know that better than anyone else! And yeah, it was - it was difficult, at first. But he's changed. He stopped the war. And we - we take care of each other now. He's _obviously _changed - he's come all the way back to Britain just because I wanted to spend the holiday with the people I consider family! And, you know what, I would appreciate it if you all would start acting like it and trusting me!"

The entire table stared at him in stunned silence. A long, tense moment passed, and then Ron clapped his hand on Harry's back. "Of course we trust you, mate," he said emphatically, glaring at his siblings. "And we're with you, through thick and thin. No matter what."

"And if you say he's not as much of an evil git anymore, we - well, we might not entirely believe you," said Fred, reconsidering, "but you can be sure we'll use you as a hostage if things get uncertain."

"Er…" Harry blinked. "Thanks."

"We're all just glad to have you back, Harry," Ginny said softly, staring at him through warm brown eyes, and Harry at last allowed himself to smile.

"I'm glad to_ be_ back. And - look, he's really changed. He has. There isn't any reason to be afraid of him. He'd never do anything to -"

A shock of anger ripped through his scar, and Harry flinched, fingers automatically flying to his forehead. The frothing familiarity of Lord Voldemort's rage began to welter within him, spilling from the Horcrux into his own soul. Green eyes closed and the frightened, spluttering face of Mrs Weasley burned a white and red sun-ghost into the back of his eyelids.

He stood abruptly, heart pounding. He hardly noticed his friends, staring at him in bewilderment and growing apprehension; he only managed half of an apology before he was gone, the cold swallowing him whole with a _crack_, leaving his words hanging incomplete in the frozen garden air.


	6. That Profound Significance

**That Profound Significance**

Voldemort busied himself with unpacking. He had crafted a wide fireplace with a polished wooden mantle and he doubted that anyone had noticed its small, sixth chimney creep up through the roof. This room would be a sanctuary; somewhere where he could escape the crowd of Weasleys Harry had insisted he cohabit with for the duration of this ludicrous holiday.

It had been necessary to enlarge the bed somewhat and, out of curiosity, he had removed the spell from the quilt and sheets. Shorn of enchantment, the patchwork cover was all the colours of a dying autumn, and the sheets reflected a creamy grey sky above. The Dark Lord left them in their natural state, but for a little enlargement and a few heating charms, and began lining the walls with his books, journals, and scrolls.

He was not one for pointless trinkets or clutter but, as he expected to be in this room a great deal, he might as well ensure it was comfortable and get some work done on his less illegal ideas. He would prefer to have dear Nagini with him, but that was impossible due to the fact that - apparently - Arthur Weasley had been the wizard his beloved pet had bitten in the Department of Mysteries. It was, after all, quite difficult to differentiate human faces while possessing a snake. He had been most pleased by Harry's account of how long Mr Weasley had been in hospital. He had never, he realised, conducted a proper study of the venom's potency as it was not sweet Nagini's habit to be slow in devouring her - or his - victims.

Lastly, he took out his silver mirror, enlarging it to its proper size, and hanging it carefully on the wall he couldn't see from the bed. The precious repository of three of his Horcruxes. Long, white fingers ran reverentially down the cold glass. _Harry_…

There was a tentative knock on the door. "Yes?" Voldemort snapped, irritated at the interruption.

"It's M-Molly," an equally tentative voice sounded from the other side.

He sighed and turned the handle. "What can I do for you, Mrs Weasley?" he asked, stepping back to allow her into the room.

"Nice to see you're making yourself at home," she said faintly, blinking at the room and not answering the question; a round, little middle-aged witch, entirely unremarkable in every way. "I – I always wondered… _why?"_

"Why what?" he asked, still distracted by the image of a young man entwined in the arms of another Lord Voldemort, hardly paying her any attention.

"Why you did it – why you killed all those good people. My b-brothers. That handsome Diggory boy. Lily and James. I just… I never understood how anyone could want to do that. And so, I said to myself: Molly, if you ever meet that evil man, you make sure to ask him. And here you are," she drew herself up, "so here I am. And you're welcome in this house, your Lordship, don't get me wrong, but a promise is a promise – even if it's just to yourself."

_It would be best if you didn't try to justify the murders you've committed. Or talk about them at all, for that matter. _The words of Harry's Mudblood friend sounded in his head. And Harry too, crying in a dusty village church, surrounded by dead bodies cast about like the human litter they were. As he had then, Voldemort struggled to find an answer to something that, to him, had never required an explanation. And now he was here. Because Harry was starting to break, just as his Death Eaters had. This visit to England had been Harry's price and, for all his protests, Lord Voldemort had not dared refuse to pay it.

It took him a moment to remember there was a witch in front of him awaiting an answer. "Because they were_ in my way_. And Iam _not_ evil, Molly Weasley, just as _they _were not good. Good and evil are an illusion. The only thing that matters is _power_. I have slaughtered men, women, and children, and I - " He paused, letting out a long breath through his nostrils. "But that is in the past. I have... different concerns now. You have no need to fear," he cracked a terrible, bitter smile, "Harry keeps me on a very short leash."

"Well... I can't say that I understand, but I… I appreciate your honesty." The woman looked a little pale, but she continued to stand her ground. "And Harry is a fine young man. You are _very_ lucky to have him with you, if you don't mind my saying so." Her tone turned sharp and fierce.

_We all love Harry very much. I think if everyone sees that you love him, too, they'll be willing to try to look past everything that's happened for his sake._ "He is an exceptional young wizard and, yes, I am more fortunate than you realise. I love him and he loves me. It is quite… extraordinary."

Molly Weasley looked unexpectedly taken aback. "You... love him?"

"Of course," Voldemort answered, vaguely offended. "What sort of arrangement did you imagine was between us? I would have thought Professor Dumbledore would have been all too happy to acquaint you with the details."

The witch's cheeks went very pink. "I suppose he made a few allusions to - well - but I hadn't quite expected you to honestly be..." She trailed off. "You'll - have to forgive me... it's just that we always thought - well, Harry and Ginny..."

"Indeed?" the Dark Lord's mouth tightened. "He has never discussed your daughter with me. As far as I was aware, his only previous involvement was with a Miss Chang."

"Oh, my, Ginny and Harry were never -" She gave a nervous laugh, still blushing. "Not that I know of, that is. No, we all simply assumed - but that's no matter. The two of you seem to be doing - quite well together. Yes." She nodded firmly, almost to herself.

"I am aware that this is not what any of you had in mind for him," Voldemort tried to curb his annoyance at such presumption. "I certainly could never have imagined it. But Harry means the world to me and - I shall have you know - I do not use such an expression lightly."

"He means the world to us as well - which is why it's very important to us that he's happy, you understand. And he certainly seems to be." She paused, her voice full of emotion. "He never really had much of a childhood, you see, living with those ghastly relatives of his..."

"I know," Voldemort glanced away, "you may not credit it, Mrs Weasley, but I understand what it is to be an orphan wizard raised by Muggles. And, in his case, it was - as everyone knows - entirely my fault. We have, neither of us, emerged unscathed from the longest decade of our lives. Harry tells me he wants to introduce me to his cousin before we leave. I cannot tell if it is reconciliation or punishment he has in mind."

"They were perfectly horrible to him," Molly Weasley said, bristling. "Did you know that they put bars on his window to keep him from getting to school one year? Bars! A twelve-year-old boy - as though he were a regular criminal!" She exhaled angrily and shook her head. "The further away you stay from those people, the better, I say - they're certain to spoil anyone's holiday - but don't you tell him I told you that."

The crimson eyes narrowed in repressed fury, "_Muggles_," he hissed. "if they cannot starve or beat magic out of children, how quickly they resort to imprisonment!" Nostrils flaring, Voldemort paced the room almost like a caged animal himself. "And to do such a thing to_ my Harry_, who does not even have it in him to_ hate_ them for it!" Blood was pounding in his ears as the room was beginning to blur. "How _dare _they - _I_ shall teach them_ degradation_, I shall put those insolent Muggles in their _proper place_, I-!"

There was a sharp crack, and Harry appeared looking frantic, cheeks still flushed from the chill. His eyes fell on the stout, shocked witch just inside the doorway, and instantly he was at Voldemort's side; the Dark Lord could smell his fear on the air even if he hadn't been able to sense it, frayed with panic, running beneath his Horcrux's skin. "Well - er - hello. What's going on here?"

"Mrs Weasley and I are having a discussion," Voldemort hissed, red eyes blank and terrible. Harry's worry only made it worse - it left the Dark Lord smarting at the indignity of being treated so carefully. He was _not_ going to lose control._ I am fine! _But it was _not_ fine, his mind was seething with frustration at being so careful, so _managed _- and it would feel so wonderful to _kill _something, to abandon pretence and revel in the stench of fear, even now he could smell it on the woman, and - _"Harry,"_ he gasped in a hiss that was barely a whimper, curling into himself,_ I must not, I must not…!_

He was enveloped suddenly in warmth, arms pulling him gently into the familiar heat of Harry's body, cradling him: _"It's all right,"_ soothing Parseltongue brushed against his ear, _"you're all right... you've been so brave for me… I'm so proud of you…" _

And all he could do was breathe Harry's breaths and try to explain - in a tight, jumbled ball of thought - his anger had been on behalf of his Horcrux, as he tried not to look at Molly Weasley for fear of killing her for witnessing such a shameful moment of weakness. Had any of his servants seen such a thing, he would have executed them immediately.

_Let's not think about that just now, all right? a_ tender voice wove through his fury. "Mrs Weasley?" he heard Harry say aloud without looking at her. "Perhaps we could meet you downstairs…?"

"Yes - of - of course, dear," the woman stammered, backing swiftly out of the room. Harry gave a distracted wave of his hand, shutting the door with a pulse of magic, and then they were alone.

The shame was absolute. It swallowed him whole. He felt like an ill-fitted half-thing: Lord Voldemort was no longer free to kill, yet nor could he counterfeit sufficient humanity to associate with such. It shredded his pride - he, who had deceived so many for so long, could no longer hide his rampant instability or his glaring inability to see or think or feel as others did. _And why should he have to? _Voldemort cried out like a wounded animal.

"Hey." There was a new note of confusion and fear in Harry's voice. Green eyes peered into his own. "Hey - what's gotten into you?"

He had crafted himself, all his long life, for one solitary purpose. In pursuit of his goal, all other concerns had seemed irrelevant. Tom Riddle had taken himself apart and remade himself into a Dark Lord more feared than any other in history. And now he was seventy-four and finding himself utterly unprepared for something so simple as what Harry was asking him to do. Voldemort buried his face in his Horcrux's hair.

Small, calloused fingers wove between his, and Harry disentangled himself from the embrace to pull him across the room, leading him to the enchanted mirror. "Tom... Look at this and tell me what you see."

"You know what I see," Voldemort said archly, "I see you and I."

"_Exactly!" _Harry smiled at him. "That's what really matters, isn't it? That's who you really are. You're kind, and funny, and tender, and loving - and all that is _you, _it's got nothing to do with me. It might feel sometimes like you're - something else… but you've only got to look in that mirror to remember that this is what matters most. That this person - _you _- is what's at the centre of it all." Harry's fingers squeezed his long hands. "And as long as you remember who you are… everything else will be all right. The rest of it won't be able to touch you."

The Lord Voldemort in the mirror offered him a proud, satisfied smirk and he let out a hiss of frustration. Only Harry had ever elicited such emotions within him. His desire gave him no help when dealing with these people, his avowed enemies, except to threaten him with all that was at risk should he fail. Voldemort trembled in Harry's hands. "I will _not _fail you, I-"

"Harry," a familiar voice called through the door, "may I come in? Molly is concerned."

A look of horror came over Harry's face. His eyes flew to the closed door. "Oh - Professor!" he called out with forced nonchalance. "I - didn't know you were here!"

Voldemort pulled away in an instant, smoothing his robes, transfiguring every appearance of vulnerability into murderous calm. He strode over to the door and opened it with a mechanical smile. "Headmaster," he breathed out as silkily as he could manage, "please come in, what can we do for you?"

Albus Dumbledore looked bemusedly from Voldemort to the young man standing behind him. "Well, hello, Tom, Harry. I hope I haven't come at a bad time. Molly was quite alarmed. She seemed to think you were having a disagreement." The Headmaster was wearing robes of plum velvet – almost the same colour as the suit he had been wearing when he came to deliver Voldemort's letter – covered with golden stars.

The Dark Lord laughed coldly, livid eyes never leaving the Headmaster's face. "We thrive on disagreement, do we not, Harry?" It was better if they assumed it to be an argument of some kind. Far more preferable to anyone realising the truth of the matter.

"Oh - er - yes," said Harry, nodding emphatically. "We have - loads of disagreements. All the time, in fact."

"You see, Headmaster?" Voldemort said softly, "nothing to concern either yourself or Mrs Weasley. I do apologise for the unnecessary inconvenience."

"It's no trouble at all," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. "I always enjoy an opportunity to get out of the castle. I'm afraid it gets quite lonely this time of year… Oh, but Tom - I see you've managed to produce a passable imitation of my old mirror!"

_Merely passable?_ His breath almost caught to think of Albus Dumbledore so close to the treasures he had not even told Harry were inside. "It was an interesting exercise," he remarked lightly, "though, of course, I could not resist a little modification…" long white fingers gestured to the ornate, silver serpents coiling around the glass.

"It is splendid spellwork indeed," Dumbledore said, studying it from behind his half-moon glasses. He looked back at the Dark Lord, eyebrows raised, "You must be quite fond of it, to bring it all the way back to Britain with you."

"It does seem a bit silly, doesn't it, when we both already have everything we want," said Harry, smiling and oblivious, as his hand slipped back into Voldemort's. "But he still insists on taking it everywhere with us!"

"It reminds me of what is important," the Dark Lord murmured, saccharine sweet, clenching Harry's hand slightly tighter than necessary. _Be quiet!_

Harry shot him a bewildered scowl - _ow, that hurts! - _while Dumbledore twinkled at both of them infuriatingly. "I'm sure it does. There are certain things I always keep on my own person as well. A handful of sweets, a warm pair of socks, a reliable watch - a man should never be too far from the things that are most important to him."

It set Voldemort's teeth on edge. _His grandfather's ring, its sanctuary violated, cracked and broken_… Instinctively, he took a step back, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders. "You are quite right, Dumbledore," he leered without an ounce of warmth. Oh, how he_ longed _to draw his wand and match that threat with one of his own…

Irritation thrummed in the tense line of his Horcrux's shoulders."You don't have to tell _him_ that, Professor. Did you know I've been of age for four years now and I've still got a curfew? Even though I'd like to think I'm much more capable of taking care of myself than a pair of woolly socks."

"Harry, requiring your return by a reasonable hour is hardly draconian. I'm _sure _you remember _why _I insist upon it, after what happened in Singapore."

"That was _one time!_" Harry burst out. "And it's not like I'd never handled a dragon on my own before!"

"A nest of Chinese Fireballs is not merely _one_ dragon. I am certain the street children you befriended were quite enthralled by your performance, but _I_ was the one who found you lying half-dead in the small hours of the morning with all my protective spells in tatters!"

"They were _baby _Chinese Fireballs," Harry informed Dumbledore, rolling his eyes, "and the mother might've got slightly - carried away when she found us playing with them - but I think _half-dead _is pushing it. She just knocked me around a bit, is all._"_

"The only reason you survived at all was because I found you in time," Voldemort hissed, crimson eyes glittering. "Indeed, the only character in your sorry explanation of events with whom I have the slightest bit of sympathy is the dragon."

"Yeah, because you both can't stand it when anyone is having any fun!" Harry glared at him. "Those dragons really liked me - they were even letting us ride them before she came along -"

"Dragons are very dangerous creatures, Harry," Dumbledore put in solemnly, although there was a distinct glint of amusement in his blue eyes. "Tom is quite right to ask you to avoid them."

"Oh, right - I should just follow his example and run around with some great hungry Basilisks instead."

"_Harry,"_ Voldemort snapped, "you were _not _in control of the situation. And, while it has never been my intention to prevent you from enjoying yourself, I fully intend to ensure you do not die of reckless stupidity!" When he had seen that still, prone form burned and broken… well, he had not been entirely honest when he told Harry what had happened to some of those disgusting urchins.

"You have no need to worry, Tom," Dumbledore said, smiling, "Harry has been thrust into considerable danger and emerged consistently unscathed long before you were around to protect him."

_"Exactly!"_

"What do you mean,_ exactly?_" Voldemort rounded on Harry angrily. "Perhaps that line of argument might work on anyone else, but as the considerable danger I know_ exactly_ how much of_ that _was skill and _exactly_ how much was sheer fool's luck."

"The only _lucky _thing that's ever happened to me," Harry said, "is ending up with you - and that's because I don't have to worry about you murdering me in my sleep anymore!"

"For your information I have never murdered anyone in their sleep," Voldemort's crimson eyes glittered as he gazed down at Harry. The edges of the thin mouth twitched. "Where is the challenge in that?"

"And where exactly is the challenge in killing an innocent baby?" Harry asked, raising his brow. "Oh, that's right - you weren't able to."

Voldemort opened his mouth to give Harry a withering reply when the interfering, old cockroach interrupted: "And we're all glad of it - especially Tom, I'm sure. And Mrs Weasley as well - in fact, I believe she required some assistance down in the kitchen for a few minutes, Harry, if you would be so kind." Twinkling blue eyes met Voldemort's. "It would give Tom and I a splendid opportunity to catch up. I'm sorry to say we haven't had the pleasure for several years now."

"I'd be happy to!" Harry said, smiling sweetly. "Tom was _so_ hoping you'd come by for that very reason, weren't you, Tom?"

Voldemort stared after his Horcrux in fury as Harry practically skipped out of the room, pausing only to give him one last wide smirk before shutting the door behind him. The Dark Lord turned to regard Professor Dumbledore, all ease gone from his demeanour, vanishing into stiff, icy politeness. "You wished to speak to me, Dumbledore?"

"Ah, the spirit of youth," Dumbledore sighed wistfully, staring after Harry. "To be twenty-one and free again. The young do not appreciate what a precious gift they have until it's long gone! But I suppose the same could be said for most things."

"Yes," the word sprung from Voldemort unexpectedly, a sad hiss that revealed too much.

"Which leads me precisely to that which I wished to discuss with you." Dumbledore was watching him carefully. "I do not intend to betray Harry's confidences, Tom, but I don't think I would overstepping my boundaries by saying he was rather agitated during his visit to Hogwarts yesterday."

"Harry is often agitated," Voldemort said lightly, "I fail to see why it is any business of yours."

"I'm afraid it soon might not be any business of _yours _if you don't begin paying it more attention."

How _dare_ this old fool say such a thing, "Is that a threat, Dumbledore?" Voldemort said slowly, anticipation thrilling up his spine, left hand twitching, crimson eyes fixed on the Headmaster, mesmerised by the possibility of a duel. Oh _yes..._

"Even if I were able to," Dumbledore said calmly, "I would never attempt to separate you. I allowed Harry to leave school with you because it was his decision to make. And if this arrangement were to end, Tom, it would be for exactly the same reason."

Blood was starting to pound in Voldemort's ears just speaking to this wizard, seeping into his vision and heightening his senses. "Then, since you will not interfere, how is our - as you say - _arrangement_, any of your concern?" The rattle of the old man's breath, the rustle of robes, and their _magic_ - a shifting antithesis: bright rays of power sizzling against vast, swirling darkness.

Dumbledore's eyes grew steely. "You are not the only one who cares for the boy, Tom. I have asked much of Harry since he came into my care. Too much, some would say. He is an extraordinarily resilient young man. But even he has his limits, and it pains me to watch them strained."

"I am here, am I not?" Voldemort hissed. "Enduring the hospitality of blood traitor filth. No one has died, as yet. Harry is perfectly fine - _his_ nerves are hardly those being strained by our present situation."

"I'll admit that this visit was not a concession I'd expected of you."

"Well, professor, you may attribute it to the power of love, a conclusion you so readily draw concerning most matters. And, having done so, you may_ leave_."

Dumbledore blinked, and then, unexpectedly, chortled. "I must say, Tom, it is certainly gratifying to see you finally accepting what I have been trying to explain to you for so long. You may say whatever you'd like, but it's clear that finding love has brought new meaning into your life. My only chagrin is that it didn't happen sooner."

"I did not _find_ anything," Voldemort spat, red eyes gleaming with raw fury, "I forcibly took the blood of my enemy - the sacrifice that nearly destroyed me - and made it my own. My mother _cursed_ me, Dumbledore, when she raped my filthy, Muggle father!"

"Ah… " Dumbledore looked to the window, frowning thoughtfully. "The Amortentia…" Voldemort shot him a poisonous glare. "Every day the world shows me new ways in which a person can be made a fool. You have my sincerest apologies, Tom."

The Dark Lord took a wary step back, unsure of how to respond to such a gesture from Albus Dumbledore. He wanted to _hurt_ the Headmaster. The livid eyes lost focus. The room suddenly felt very small and airless.

"But perhaps this means you understand better than most," Dumbledore said calmly, "for you lived without it for so long. It is as I said before: only in something's absence do we truly understand its significance."

Voldemort nodded stiffly, unwilling to concede anything to the old man, yet unable to deny the truth in his words. Blank faced, he hoped his fear was not visible, that shameful, boiling fear that accompanied love, the ache of that profound significance.

"Which is precisely why I'm trying to _help _you, my dear boy." Dumbledore's voice was gentle, blue eyes watching him carefully. "Harry briefly mentioned what happened in June. He is still quite distressed about it. And although there are many things he can endure, I do not believe this to be one of them."

_How dare Harry discuss such private matters with Dumbledore. _"I do not require assistance," Voldemort said coldly.

Infuriating pity shone out of Dumbledore's gaze. "You have always needed help, dear boy."

"Do not presume to treat me like the child I once was, Dumbledore. I am no longer one of your students, nor is there between us even the remotest intimacy of acquaintance which might allow for such affectation. _You_ are the last person in the world from whom I would _ever _solicit advice. Besides which, why would I take counsel from a man who, for all his vaunted wisdom on the subject, has no one who loves him and cannot even maintain cordial relations with his own family."

Dumbledore flinched visibly. Infinite sorrow was written into the wrinkles of the Headmaster's face, and he seemed, in that moment, many years older. "We are, the both of us, foolish old men who have made too many mistakes. I would like to believe I can still help others learn from my own thoughtless errors, but I can understand your unwillingness to accept advice from a man who has not even had the strength of character to follow it himself." He smiled bitterly at his own expense. "Very well. I shan't keep you any longer."

Voldemort gave him a savagely polite smile, thrilled his assessment of the wretched man's weakness had been correct, and that the barb had struck home. "Good day, professor," he drawled, insides crawling with cruel glee at seeing Albus Dumbledore crumple.

But on Dumbledore's way to the door, he paused at the precious repository of Voldemort's Horcruxes, examining the silver serpents that wound entwined along its edges. "Men have wasted away before these mirrors," he murmured, almost to himself. "It is such a pity when one's deepest desire also becomes one's deepest regret." Blue eyes bore into his and, for a moment, Voldemort was certain Dumbledore knew exactly what image it conjured when the Dark Lord stared into its depths. "See that it doesn't happen to you, Tom Riddle, before the damage is irreversible."


	7. You and I

**7. You and I**

Ginny was sitting by the window, her long hair shining a little in the winter sunlight, thumb furiously tapping on a fancy mobile phone. "Oh, Mum!" she called as Harry entered the kitchen. "Oliver's on his way to pick me up. He just texted me." She sent Harry a slightly odd smile.

"Honestly, Ginny, you're not still playing with that silly contraption Arthur brought home last week?" Mrs Weasley sighed. Harry got the feeling her exasperation had nothing to do with the phone. "We have guests."

"I helped Dad break the curse! It works fine now - see, no more tentacles! - and Oliver has one too. Muggles use them all the time, right Harry?"

And in Ginny's eyes he saw a dark young man grinning at him, pressing a small, plastic object into the palm of his hand - _this way I can find you when you're not around_. Harry blinked, clearing the image from his mind. "I honestly wouldn't know. Tom thinks they're horrid. I came across one once and he sort of - er - blasted it to pieces." He forced himself to return her smile, even if smiling was the last thing he felt like doing - watching Ginny flirt with Oliver Wood, the two of them off to live their dreams as professional Quidditch players while Harry was still bickering with a stubborn Dark Lord about curfews and harmless Muggle technologies.

Ginny bit her bottom lip, looking at Harry sideways. Mrs Weasley appeared to have suddenly found things to do in the kitchen without Harry's help. Pots rattled. "I guess that's what you get when you hang out with a Muggle-hating lunatic. So you - you call him Tom, then?" Her red hair fell across her face and she reached up to tuck it behind her ear, revealing a tiny golden earring in the shape of a snitch.

"When I know I can get away with it. He isn't exactly fond of it." He laughed nervously and forced himself to look back at her eyes when he realized he was still staring at the delicate shape of her ear. "And it's not like he goes blowing things up every day, y'know. Just when he's - testy."

"Right…" Ginny's phone buzzed and she shoved it in her pocket. "Well, Oliver's here, so…?" the last syllable hovered awkwardly between them, heavy with things unsaid.

"Oliver… Right. Yeah." Harry almost winced at how artificial the words sounded. "Hope you have a good date. Um… day. Or - date, if that's what you're… y'know…"

Ginny's ears began to redden, "Harry, I - "

At that moment Oliver Wood walked in, wrapped up in a blue woollen cloak decorated with Puddlemere United's distinctive golden bulrushes. He was taller, broader, and more handsome than ever. He grinned happily at Ginny, but did a double-take when he saw Harry. "Oh… hi Harry…" his grin became slightly strained, "it's great to see you again!"

"Hello, Oliver," said Harry, hoping he sounded more cheerful than he felt.

"Been keeping up the practice?" Wood's smile relaxed, "I could put in a word for you, now that you're back. You're such a good player, and lots of teams need a solid backup Seeker, I'm sure a few would be willing to overlook what happened. You should give it some thought, right Gin?"

"Thanks, but I'm not in any shape to go professional these days," he said quickly, even though he kept up maneuvers every morning. "Though I hear you've made an excellent Keeper for Puddlemere! Must be a bit hard, with your girlfriend on a rival team now… fraternizing with the enemy and whatnot…"

"I haven't played a single game for the Harpies yet," Ginny said quickly, "and even then I'm only a reserve, not like Oliver…"

"Everyone starts out that way and you're a spectacular Chaser, Gin, you'll get there." Wood took a deep breath, "I… I never believed that stuff they said in the_ Prophet_ about you and You-Know-Who, Harry. Just… just so you know."

Harry fancied he might be able to feel his heart actually stop in his chest. "They're - still going on about that, are they?" he heard himself say, though he hadn't the faintest clue what Wood was talking about. They couldn't have found out… it was impossible…

"Yeah, but you and Dumbledore faking his return to steal power from the Ministry?" Wood shook his head. "I know you better than that. Honestly, I don't blame you for running away."

"I didn't run away!" said Harry hotly before he could stop himself. This was somehow a hundred times worse than anyone finding out about what had really happened. The _Prophet _had accused him of lying to somehow one-up the Ministry? _That _was the thanks Harry got, for giving up his future for the rest of the wizarding world? "I - was out looking for him," he forced himself to say as calmly as he could. "Out of the country. But I saw him come back myself! They all saw him, with their own eyes, standing right in the middle of the Ministry! And - and they're _still _saying I was lying, are they?"

"It is a_ little _suspicious, Harry," Ginny said, her brown eyes gleaming. "I mean, no one's seen him since that night. Where did he go?"

"I _realise _that, Ginny," Harry said through gritted teeth, "but I wasn't the only one who saw him, was I? Absolute rubbish - _faking his return _- how convenient none of you mentioned this in any of your letters!"

"Professor Dumbledore said it would only upset you -"

"_I'm not upset!"_ Harry all but yelled.

"- and, you know, your _girlfriend_."

"Oh, congratulations, Harry!" Wood winked at him, "does she play Quidditch?"

"I think she's more of a Beater than anything else, really…" Ginny muttered slyly.

"There's more to life than Quidditch, you know," Harry snapped. "And she probably _would _be upset - but why shouldn't she be! After all I've done - I reckon a lot _more _people should be upset, instead of sitting back and watching the _Prophet_ print such crap about their friend!"

"Well, maybe you should do another interview with the _Quibbler_, Harry!" Ginny snapped, just as angrily. "You know, tell everyone the _truth?_"

"Maybe I'm too busy with _Lord Voldemort_ to try and convince people I'm not barking mad!" Harry said loudly. "I shouldn't have to give an interview with some raving magazine for people to believe me! But _no _- they'd all rather sit around and slander me while I tramp around the world with my _Beater _girlfriend, making all the hard decisions so that _they don't have to!"_

"Who has dared to slander my Harry?" an icy voice demanded, and Harry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Lord Voldemort was standing on the stairwell, crimson eyes glittering dangerously. Tom's thoughts were as cold and unforgiving as his blank, red glare.

"Um - hello there, Tom!" Harry scrambled to stand between the furious Dark Lord and Oliver Wood, who was gaping up at Voldemort in horror. "We were just talking about you! And they were - just about to head out. Weren't you, Ginny?"

"Uh…"

"I will not be dissuaded by platitudes!" Tom hissed, gliding forward. "_Tell me _who has dared to speak ill of him and I shall _end _any such libel!"

"You can hardly blame them," Harry said, "it's just the sort of libel _you _encouraged in the first place, y'know... I'm quite used to it, really - no need to overreact…"

"_I will not see you insulted!" _

"_I can take care of myself!" _he hissed back, with great irritation.

Tom halted, his expression dissolving into an expressionless mask as he took a step back. _"Very well,"_ he said quietly, _"then perhaps you should obliviate that witless fool." _And he turned on his heel and gracefully ascended the stairs once more, trailing rage and bitterness behind him.

Harry swore and whirled around. Wood was staring at him, "_That_ - he - that was?-!"

"Well, Oliver, it was really lovely to see you again," Harry said, with false, biting geniality, "we'll just have to catch up again some other time, I s'pose - _Obliviate."_

Wood's eyes slid out of focus, and his look of horror fell away, replaced by dreamy indifference. Harry would have been proud of himself if he hadn't been so frustrated. Ginny grabbed her boyfriend by the elbow and dragged him out the door, pausing only to send Harry a furious glare over the shoulder as she left.

"Have a nice date!" Harry called cheerfully after them as she slammed the door.

"Harry," Mrs Weasley walked up beside him, looking disappointed. "I… I'm very proud of what you're doing with… with _him_… but our Ginny didn't deserve that."

That was the last straw for Harry. "Oh, we're going to talk about what we all _deserve _now, are we?" he said furiously. "You'll have to wait a few minutes - I've got to go and make sure _he_ doesn't blow up your house first."

Flustered, the flush draining from her face, she looked anxiously from Harry to the empty stairwell. "He, he wouldn't… would he? Dumbledore assured me we'd be safe… he took a vow..."

"No, don't worry - he'll simply take it out on me instead," Harry snapped, and shaking off her hand, stormed up the stairs after one very offended Lord Voldemort.

* * *

Voldemort's fingers jerked and the door of his makeshift room slammed behind him. It felt claustrophobic, but at least here there was no one here to gape or reprimand him, no etiquette by which he must be bound. He had felt the rage of his Horcrux and come to his aid, as was only right. Still, Harry's fury called to his own; it was as though he were surrounded by walls of delicate glass, unable to move for fear of shattering them, while the sun shone down upon him, its heat scalding his flesh.

He lay on the bed, pulling the patchwork quilt about himself, and shut his eyes tight. Unable to rage, unable to fight, he was stilled with helpless, eviscerating shame. If he merely lay quietly, he could spend his time in this place coiled up like dear Nagini. Offending no one, frightening no one, _killing _no one. Harry would not be pleased, but Voldemort did not care. It would suffice. He tried to imagine himself sinking into the depths of a clear, cold lake.

The door burst open and then slammed shut again. Harry seemed to roll into the room on a tidal wave of anger. "Oh, this is a _great_ time for a nap, Tom. Barge into the kitchen, yell at everyone, and then leave me to calm them all down while _you _go and have yourself a rest. Good show."

"You were upset, so I came to your aid," he answered softly without moving or opening his eyes, striving to remain in the dark icy waters of his imagination and not be drawn into Harry's rage, "and then you informed me you did not require assistance, so I removed myself."

"Yeah, well, maybe the kind of assistance_ you_ had in mind and the kind that I _needed_ are two very different things!"

"What would you have preferred?" The truth of it was, he realised, was that he could offer Harry no assistance in this. His very presence served only as a complication and whatever answer his Horcrux gave would be a false one. And was it not _right _to be angry on Harry's behalf? Was that not what the boy had needed - passionate agreement?

"Perhaps you could start with a solution that doesn't involve _killing everything that moves!" _Harry's voice broke, and he could hear the young man's uneven breathing from across the room, full of grief and broken anger.

"That is what I am doing," Voldemort said calmly.

"Well, good on you. But if you've ever got something that will actually _help_, be sure and let me know."

At that, Voldemort sat up, swinging his feet onto the floor, perching taut at the edge of the bed. "If you have something you wish to say to Lord Voldemort," he said silkily, "simply say it."

Harry was standing by the hearth, tense and scowling. "I shouldn't _have _to say it!"

"I apologise for adding to your distress. Is that what you require?" Voldemort gave a hollow hiss. "I only wished to punish those who displease you and, all day, I have been attempting to be polite to those whom you value. It is exhausting but I do it because I love you. True, I have not always succeeded, but what have I done which has caused me to fall so deeply in your estimation?"

Harry deflated. All the rage seemed to rush out of him, leaving him tired and miserable in its wake. "Don't be ridiculous. You've been - you've been great. Really, you have. I'm sorry… I just -" He drew a deep breath and turned away. "Forget it. I don't know what's got into me."

Voldemort stood and wound his arms gently around the shoulders of his beloved. "You have, for the first time, been confronted with the other choice you might have made."

"They don't even care that I'm gone…" Harry said in a small voice, still looking away. "I've been away for five years… I sacrificed _everything_… and it's all just some sort of joke to them."

He pulled away, stung by the implication that others ought to be_ grateful_ for the selfless service Harry provided them by keeping Lord Voldemort in check. "I would hope, Harry, that you did not mean what you just said."

Harry glared at him. "You know that's not what I meant." The young man came for him this time, burying his dark head in Voldemort's shoulder, breathing deeply against him. "I'm sorry," he murmured again into his robes. "This is just - a lot more difficult than I expected."

Voldemort sank his face into Harry's soft, wild hair. "I have seen neither ridicule, nor disregard for your person, in the minds of any of those here. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Well, of course _they _care about me. They're my friends." Harry looked up at him, some of the anger coming back into those green eyes again. "They're saying in the _Prophet _that I - ran away from Britain. That I tried to steal power from the Ministry, and when it went bad, I just... ran off. Like some kind of coward."

"Explain to me why you value the opinions of these people," Voldemort asked. "Are they useful to you? Do you associate with them? Because, unless you wish to punish them, I cannot see any way forward but to cease considering them altogether. You are _not_ a coward, Harry, you know it and I know it. What else matters?"

"I was ready to _die _for them," Harry said quietly, face tight with emotion. "When I first found out I was your Horcrux, Tom, I was… I was ready to let you kill me."

The mere mention of such a thing was enough for Voldemort to pull Harry closer than close, _"Do not speak of it!"_ he gasped into that warm skin.

"I _was,_" said Harry, voice shaking, "and they make me out to be a coward! Like I ever cared about power - or fame - or _any _of it - I would have let you kill me so they could keep living their lives, and that's what they've got to say about me…"

He held his trembling, precious Horcrux in his arms, running one hand slowly through Harry's fine, jet black hair. "They are insects to be_ crushed_, my treasure. Utterly insignificant - they know _nothing_ of the brave young man you are; I will _not_ have credulous fools such as they upset you - they have _never_ deserved your sacrifice!"

Harry shook his head against the Dark Lord's shoulder. "If they knew… If they just knew, then they wouldn't be saying these things about me…"

"Beloved," Voldemort sighed into Harry's forehead, sending tingling beads of magic through the touch, "if they knew they would be saying far _worse_."

"You're wrong." Harry looked up at him. There was an edge of desperation to his shining green eyes that Voldemort did not often glimpse there. "People are _good_, Tom - they just - they don't understand, that's all. But if they did… I know it would be different. I know it."

"In my experience people are neither good, nor understanding, nor ever likely to be different." A pale hand stroked down the young man's cheek. "You must content yourself with the sum of what you are and not look to such petty, easily influenced things as _newspapers_ for the truth."

"The sum of what I am." Harry laughed miserably. "And what am I, exactly? Ron's training to be an Auror. Hermione's crusading for equal rights in the Ministry. Ginny's a bloody reserve Seeker for the Harpies - and _what am I?"_

_You are mine, _Voldemort though fiercely, but then began to consider Harry's words. _What am I? _"And I am a Dark Lord without followers, without subjects over whom to rule…"

"Hasn't stopped you from acting the part," Harry said darkly.

"Thank you," Voldemort said, pleased.

Harry yanked away, filled with sudden fury. "That isn't what I meant and you know it! I do everything you ask me to, don't I? I follow your curfew, you always know where I am - I never pull too hard on the bloody leash you've slipped around my neck - and it's _still _not enough for you, is it! It will never be enough for you! You might not have any subjects to rule over, but you will _always _find more people to kill!"

And the world sharpened to something red and crystalline; the softness draining out of it as Harry's words struck bone. Thin, pale skin pulled back from grinding teeth and Voldemort hissed. Darkness bled from his limbs and the fire went out. "And do_ I_, Lord Voldemort, not obey _you_? How _dare you _presume that you are the only one who has made sacrifices? You, who have brought me to the bosom of my enemies, complain of wizards who do not_ care_ where you have gone - did not_ care_ to seek you out - do I not suffer the same?" He lowered his voice to a furious whisper, "Why do you not go and play with your Gryffindor companions while I continue to endeavour to stay in this room and disturb no one with the shame I feel that it should have come to this!"

"_Shameful, _is it, to be stuck with me -?!" Harry hissed back, blood rushing into his face.

"Shameful to be reduced to_ this! _To hiding in a spare room, unable to be Lord Voldemort yet unable to be anything else! Being treated like glass and chastised like a child!"

"Maybe if I weren't afraid you were going to off anybody that _breathes _at you the wrong way, _I wouldn't need to!_"

"I told you I was not ready for this and you_ ignored _my warnings! I told you this was going to be more difficult than you imagined and you ignored my warnings! And, after I go out of my way to avoid imposing myself on these people, you come upstairs and _berate me for your own injured pride!"_

"Perhaps I was just hoping for some_ support_! From, you know, _my lover! _Instead of hearing all about how hard _you _have it - about how you miss BEING A BLOODY DARK LORD!"

"AND I _WOULD_ SUPPORT YOU IF YOU HAD ANY INTEREST IN LISTENING TO ME INSTEAD OF BERATING ME WITH THINGS I HAVE NOT DONE SINCE ARGENTINA!"

Harry made a hissing noise, stepping backward as though physically struck. "So we're going to talk about _Argentina_ now, are we -?! BECAUSE THAT WAS SO LONG AGO, WAS IT? WELL - EXCUSE ME IF IT TOUCHES A NERVE WHEN YOU COME DOWNSTAIRS THREATENING TO KILL EVERYONE - I MEAN, SIX MONTHS IS SUCH A _LONG TIME _TO FORGET A _COLD-BLOODED MASSACRE -"_

"_THEY WERE MUGGLES!"_

"_HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU! THAT - DOESN'T - MATTER!"_

"_IT WAS SIX MONTHS AGO, HARRY!" _

"SIX MONTHS! IS SIX MONTHS SUPPOSED TO MAKE UP FOR THE HUNDREDS OF LIFETIMES THAT YOU ROBBED THOSE INNOCENT PEOPLE -"

" - I TOLD YOU THEY WERE _MUGGLES!"_

"I - DON'T - _CARE!"_

"NO, YOU ONLY CARE ABOUT THE FACT THAT NOBODY HERE APPRECIATES HOW YOU_ SAVED_ THEM ALL FROM LORD VOLDEMORT!"

Snarling, Harry flew forward and seized the cashmere robes he had bought the Dark Lord for the cold weather. "_Don't you dare _act like I've treated you like some kind of burden," he hissed, his eyes bright with anger and tears. "Especially when even _you _don't appreciate half of what I've done! I threw away _everything - _all so that you could go and kill the only other people -" his voice hitched, "that I was able to _talk _to… that I've stuck myself forever to an impossible - ungrateful - volatile - _git _of a wizard who can't go five minutes without thinking of _anyone but himself_!"

Voldemort ripped himself from Harry's grasp and took three steps back, trembling with abject fury. "I am going back to London," he said breathlessly, his anger icing over into blank-faced resolve.

Harry's rage seemed to crash into a wall. The light went out of his eyes; his fingers grasped empty air, and then fell to his sides, still. "Are you," he said flatly.

"I came here for _you_," Voldemort said coldly, "if all you are going to do is hurl insults at me when I defend you and then peacefully retreat to this room, I fail to see why I should bother. You may call upon me, naturally, but I imagine you will be too busy enjoying your time away from the impossible, ungrateful, volatile git you are yoked to for eternity. As, of course, shall I."

The boy did not sit on the bed so much as he collapsed onto it. Many moments passed before he spoke; Harry did not look up at him. "And what makes you think I'll want to leave again?"

_You promised me. _Crimson eyes blinked. Harry loved him. Harry had promised him forever, had claimed his love could ride out any such storms and would never founder on even such jagged rocks as these. "I see," Voldemort said slowly, his mouth numb.

Harry buried his dark head in his hands, fingers clutching at his hair. "I _need _this to work," he rasped out at length, "I need it to - I can't keep on like this if I don't know - if I don't absolutely know…"

Voldemort simply stared at him, out of words, out of patience, out of energy, but most profoundly, most unfortunately, not out of love.

"Is that it, then?" And Harry met his gaze as though looking at him were something painful. "Is that all you've got to say?"

"No, I merely have no confidence that you will listen." Voldemort's tone was measured, wary, tired.

"I needed _you _to listen," Harry whispered.

"I _have _been listening," Voldemort replied just as softly. "I understand perfectly your ultimatum. That is why I have striven to be everything you wished me to be, despite what you may have perceived. But if I am to be punished before I have failed, then there is little point in such an attempt."

"You _are _every-" Harry began, and then cut off. His throat moved as he swallowed. "All right," he said suddenly, voice trembling with emotion. "You know what? _Fine. _Go, then. See if I care."

And somehow, even though it was he who had declared his intention to leave, he felt as though he was being forcibly evicted and remained fixed to the floor like a fool, unable to move, petrified by the very thought of being so far from his most cherished Horcrux.

"Well, which is it? Do you mean to leave or don't you?" And now, of course, was the time for storming or sullen withdrawal from the field; but he stood and he breathed - those green eyes scrutinising his silence - and it was too late because the threat was empty, just as he was, without Harry.

Harry's entire body curled in on itself, as though resisting the weight of physical pain. "God _damnit_, Tom," he hissed; and then Voldemort was embraced, embodied in warmth; Harry quivering against him and clinging to Voldemort's long, tall body as though it were the only thing that might hold him together. "You can't just _say_ things like that," Harry berated him furiously between kisses, pressed frantically across his face, "you can't just - how could you even think about -"

And Voldemort clawed and quivered and kissed and shook his head and wrapped himself around Harry as tight as possible, a physical bulwark against any such separation. "I was only going back to London - it was you who - who suggested -" He felt as terrified and inarticulate as Quirinus Quirrell.

Harry's desperate lips found his, small fingers curling into his robes, and his mouth tasted of pumpkin juice and honey and thin, wild promises. "Don't you_ dare_," Harry pinned him against the wall with a succession of deep, soul-searing kisses, "don't you dare - you're not allowed, all right? I_ stayed _with you - I stayed when you needed me most - when you gave me every reason to go, I still bloody stayed - you can't just go _saying_ things like that, Tom -"

And they were one, and their anxieties broke over each other and fled from their questing mouths. "I?" Voldemort gasped out, biting into plump lower lip as hands dragged fiercely at his frail ribs.

"_You,_" Harry growled, tearing his mouth away to breathe hotly against his ear, "you - do you know what it was like, being without you for a single night? I was - I was going _mad _- I couldn't stop _thinking _about you -"

"I could not - even s-s-sleep to - dream," Voldemort eked out in stuttered hisses, as magic seemed to fizz in his earlobe and shudder all the way to his toes. And he became, as he always did, clay in his dear one's warm, wondrous hands that grasped and teased and spun him to such inexpressible delights.

"So why would you - _how _could you -" Harry thrust his legs apart with a knee, rough fingers finding the silver catches along the side of Voldemort's ribs. They fumbled there for a single throbbing moment, "god_ damnit_," and then teeth sunk into Voldemort's throat as Harry sent an impatient pulse of magic down his body; his robes simply fell away in a rush of freezing air: he could no longer tell if he was shivering from cold or arousal as he rubbed himself against those legs, teeth, hands, and heated breaths; arching into every touch, lingering in every caress, swaying and hissing in keen abandon.

Hands seized his hips and pulled them harshly against Harry's, a spike of lightheaded desire that wracked every inch of his striving, quivering flesh. Bitten nails dug into his waist as Harry ground helplessly into him, shirt riding up his warm stomach, gasping and swearing against his ear. "_How could you,"_ he demanded breathlessly; "I _hate _you," clearly meaning something entirely different. He bit sharply into Voldemort's shoulder as a jar of lubrication flew from the trunk into his waiting palm with a smack. Harry spun him around, heedless of the cold wall as he shoved him roughly against it, breathing what could be either curses or prayers against his neck.

But Harry's fingers were gentle and solicitous as they slid inside him - deep, calculated thrusts that left him aching and restless with arousal. "I touched myself that night," Harry's low voice floated across the infinite sprawl of sensation, "I fucked my fingers like this, Tom, and I thought about you - the way you look when I'm pleasuring you -"

Something between a whimper and a growl escaped Voldemort as he imagined his treasured one naked in the velvet luxury of a Hogwarts four-poster bed, and_ felt_ the yearning spill from Harry's memory at the same time as those worshipful fingers continued to minister to his flesh. One wide, pale hand ripped at the wallpaper, while the other splayed against the wet windowpane and slid against the condensation, sharp nails raking the glass with a squeak.

"But it wasn't the same - it could never be the same -"

Harry suddenly twitched his fingers just so, _just there,_ and the world ruptured in a hundred different shades of light. Harry made a low, pleased noise against his neck, and then he withdrew. The sound of Harry undoing his belt behind him, the yank of the zipper on the awful Muggle trousers he insisted on wearing, were nearly enough to ruin him.

But then his Harry was sliding slowly, _slowly_ inside of him - _finally - _Harry's mouth trembling at the back of his neck, sweaty fingers slipping into Voldemort's grasping hand and pressing it to the windowsill. He cursed in Parseltongue, old, filthy words learned in the East End of London translated into the breathless murmurings of serpents, as his Harry and his Horcrux were once more _inside _him, holding him tight against a universe flush with stars at each slow thrust.

Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him backward against his beloved one, hands drinking in his stomach and chest as they rocked together in ritual communion. He lowered his eyelids and the hands were his, the flesh they invaded was his - the serpent and the cave - the push and the thrust - all were Lord Voldemort, just as his was the name that was pulled from Harry's lips in a long, slow sound of pleasure.

Soft lips nudged at his jaw, seeking his mouth. Harry gave him a deep, boneless kiss that broke off in half of a gasp ("oh Tom - oh _god - _it's -"),grinding against him in slow, tight, exquisite circles that seemed to caress each knot of his spine with magic. Fingers found his straining sex, and the hot, heavy grip caused him to squirm and throw off their rhythm as all the weight of their arguments lifted - pricking his eyes - and he was transfigured into something wild, helpless, and keening.

"Yeah, Tom," said Harry thickly, stroking him as he writhed and gasped, "oh, that's good, isn't it?" And perhaps it could come to be appropriate that he should be called by that name in such moments as this, not because he preferred it - he would always hate his Muggle father's name - but because this was a precious secret shared between the two of them and garnered no part of his legend. Besides, he had tried to deter Harry from saying it for years, to no avail.

With soft words of encouragement, Harry bent him forward, guiding his hands to the windowsill. "Here," he murmured, "Yeah, that's it - hold on." When he pulled back again, he began to thrust in earnest - long, thorough, toe-curling thrusts that reverberated deep inside every one of his bones. Harry reached around and gathered Voldemort into his hand again; warm and calloused, his fingers seemed to buzz with magic as they pleasured him - Harry's gasping breaths moist against Voldemort's neck, "oh god oh god -"

Braced against the peeling sill, Voldemort stared down through blurred glass into Mrs Weasley's vegetable garden; a clear view obtained only through the ghosts of finger-wiped holes, which disappeared further with each hot, misting breath. His flat nose hit the cold window and the barrow, the chickens, and the snowy fields dissolved into ice and fire as he hit the glass again - gasp-groaning - and a third time and a fourth, slamming into the window as Harry grasped and invaded him.

"_Yes," _Harry sobbed into his ear, incoherent Parseltongue slicing through the reeling assault on his senses, "_You won't leave, you won't, tell me you won't leave -"_

_Thrust. _"No, I - " _Thrust. _

"You won't -" _Thrust. "Tell me -!"_

_Thrust. _"I-"

_Thrust. "Tell me!" _

"_Never!" _

And Harry was sweeping into his consciousness, a wholly overwhelming surge of delirious, coiling pleasure that only intensified his own. Harry seized his hips and hauled him backward in a swift, driving motion that impaled him completely - bruising fingers moving him forward and backward, forward and backward, a punishing rhythm that made his Harry pant and swear and cry out against his skin.

He slid his right hand into the middle of the sill and moved his left hand, his_ wand_ hand, to his sex, long, thin fingers on long, thin flesh; it could never be the same as those heated, sweaty hands - or _mouth_ - but Harry was cracking him open like a geode and the slightest touch sent all sensations a-tumble as Harry staggered suddenly forward, throwing them off balance. Voldemort's shoulder collided with the window; he lost his grip on the sill; and in that moment they were a swaying ship in the split second before a wave sends it tipping over -

And then they were lurching sideways, Harry snarling and cursing as they spilled to the hard floor. Harry slipped out of him in the confusion, and for a few frustrating moments, they were little more than a painful tangle of limbs and nails and hair - and then Harry began to laugh warmly against his stomach and Voldemort joined in, high and breathy cachinnations that took all the air from his lungs. "Told you to _hold on,_" Harry chastised him, grinning, into his tingling skin. Then their eyes met, and his smile became something dark and devious. Harry shifted, burning green eyes never once leaving his own, and pulled him completely into his mouth.

"I _was _holding… _ah_…" the shudder extended to every limb, their connection expanding within him like a glistening, boiling bubble of blown glass. Voldemort arched off the hard floorboards and let out a sigh that curled itself into hisses of warm, gleaming pleasure. Harry hummed his approval and took him deeper, hands smoothing up his sides, molding him into something consisting only of tension and sensation - of everywhere Harry's fingers claimed his skin, of the slow, exquisite worship of moist heat and tongue.

Then Harry pulled away. Voldemort twisted and snarled, crimson eyes flashing in the dim afternoon light. Harry crawled rapidly back up his body, bent down, and kissed him hard on the mouth. Teeth ripped needfully into lips as they tussled for supremacy, twining together across the floor; scalding, powerful kisses, tasting of musk and impatience. Lean arms drew him up, lifting him off the floor. Harry was short but strong, he lifted his taller lover over his shoulder with a purposeful grunt, and climbed to his feet, Voldemort raking his nails down his lover's back, leaving long, red lines parallel to Harry's spine. His Horcrux yelped and deposited him abruptly onto the bed.

Voldemort watched as Harry pulled his shirt over his head, damp with perspiration, and threw it carelessly to the floor. Harry did not seem to notice that his hair had become disordered in the process (but was this not always the case, since his beloved disavowed brilliantine?), or that his glasses were askew; he was looking at Voldemort as though he would very much like to devour him alive. And, of course, the Dark Lord had no objection to this. He sprawled across the quilt, teasing Harry with his serpent's tongue, tasting the aroma of arousal on the air.

A low, growling noise ripped from Harry's mouth, and the old mattress sagged as Harry climbed onto the bed and all but fell upon him. Harry's fingers reached for more lubricant, slathering it onto himself as he thrust his tongue into Voldemort's mouth, chasing and stroking the Dark Lord's own two-pronged instrument.

"Can't even hold on properly," Harry murmured and pulled away, grinning wickedly as he hoisted long, white legs over his shoulders. "Just got to do everything myself, I s'pose."

"My saviour," Voldemort meant to say dryly, but it emerged as more of a groan than anything else.

"Perhaps you'd like me to stop?" Harry asked him archly. "If you're so well off on your own…" He guided his sex between Voldemort's stretching thighs and paused, on the brink of delirium - blunt and promising pressure that was just short of where he needed it to be, to Voldemort's infinite irritation.

"Perhaps you would like me to cut it off?" he hissed back, "I think I could manage a wandless Slicing Hex."

All of the breath fled from his lungs as Harry abruptly penetrated him, piercing him straight through his core - rocking him backward so that the angle was even deeper than before. Sweaty hair fell across Harry's eyes as he leaned over Voldemort's body, panting and smirking. "But then who would make you feel this way?"

"I am sure, with proper training, Nagini could-"

Harry snapped his hips back and then forward again, a bone-deep shock of pleasure careening up his spine. "That's disgusting."

Voldemort laughed, "The look on your face… _umph!"_

Harry chuckled darkly. "Ngh… the look on _your_ face..."

The red eyes glittered wickedly, flat nostrils flaring as Voldemort's white, hairless scalp hit Mrs Weasley's freshly washed, rose-scented, patchwork pillowcase. Harry grinned back, recognizing the challenge, and pressed Voldemort's knees toward his thin, milky shoulders. Their faces but inches apart, he pulled back and then rammed into the small, sensitive gland that made Voldemort's vision split open in a kaleidoscope of colour. His jaw dangled and the slit pupils dilated to an almost human size. He gasped, eyes fluttering shut, and gasped again. Harry watched him hungrily. "_Yes_," he groaned, driving into him harder, shoving him further and further up the mattress with each thrust, "yeah, oh god, your face, right there -"

Talons dug into sweaty, jet black hair - so like his own, once - as Voldemort cried out in desperate litany: eager, delirious Parseltongue that could only fail to describe the sensation of souls and bodies crashing into each other. Their mouths melted into each other again as Harry truly fell into rhythm, looming over him, moaning helplessly against his lips:

"- yes yes _oh_ yes yes yes yes -"

Suddenly, Harry rose onto his knees, grabbed the Dark Lord's hips, and hoisted them onto his lap. The smooth skin of Voldemort's bare legs brushed against Harry's ears - his long-boned feet shockingly pale against the dark ceiling above - as strong fingers gripped his waist and held it still, his Horcrux pounding into him mercilessly. Green eyes feasted on his face, blazing with near-tangible heat.

And Harry's excitement hit him as fiercely as his movements, shockingly possessive - the desperate need to ensnare, to claim, to keep close and never, ever release. Voldemort was _his -_ and this was all that mattered, all that would ever matter, the feverish press of Tom's mouth to his face, Tom's hands in his hair, Tom's soul, naked and shining and absent of all the horrors that blackened his thoughts whenever they were separated - _this_ was all that existed, this rhythm of nails and hips and clenching thighs - and Harry fucked him as though he could drive out every dark impulse, every memory of death and torture - everything but the breathtaking sensation of their souls soaring frantically higher and higher in cherished, unparalleled union -

He shrieked and clung all the tighter - they were no longer a ship but the sea itself, raging, rising up into great waves only to crash down into the unfathomable depths of feeling, swirling like the furious lips of Charybdis. _Harry, Voldemort, Horcrux_: three possessors curving into one pulsing, thrashing possessed.

Harry twisted deep inside him, crying out, and he reached desperately for Voldemort's sex - he was still slick with saliva, and the first slide of Harry's fist brought him almost completely off the mattress, his entire body a single, arching rush of pleasure. Harry buried his burning face against Voldemort's leg, rocking and rocking into him, expression tight, slack-jawed and beautiful - "oh god oh _- god Tom - oh -_ I _-"_ stroking, _stroking_ -

And his own hands caught that perfect face and drew it close: cheeks, nose, lips, _scar - _and everything pressed as tight as apparition and then thrummed out of him in splinters of ecstasy, Harry mewling and coming helplessly inside of him - their pleasure utterly inseparable, twin souls weaving and pulsing in the slow, hazy descent from glittering stars.

* * *

_Authors' Note: We were going to post just the fight in this chapter, but all our reviewers have been so wonderful that we decided to give you all an extra long chapter for the weekend. Thank you so much to those who've been following us since 'In Somno Veritas' and welcome to everyone who's just started reading. We love you all so much and hope you had as much fun reading chapter seven as we had writing it. _


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